


The Coolness of Your Shadow

by Viscariafields



Series: Puppy Love [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Grieving, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Major Character Injury, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of alcohol, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Warden Bethany Hawke, mention of domestic abuse, slow burn for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: She watched the new templar out of the corner of her eye as he trailed after the others doing whatever it was templars did in a town like Lothering. And he was always trailing, never with them, never among them. They didn’t talk to him. She once saw him trip in his skirts and bang his helmet against a bookshelf. Nobody laughed, but nobody stopped to help him up, either. She nearly did, before she remembered herself. The other templars just continued on their way, like he didn’t even exist.She wondered what his secret was.~~Apostate Bethany Hawke and the not-quite-templar Alistair first met in Lothering.Five years later, Warden Bethany Hawke and King Alistair Theirin meet again in Denerim.  And then again, and then again. If Alistair has his way, they'll never stop meeting.
Relationships: Alistair/Bethany Hawke
Series: Puppy Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715638
Comments: 301
Kudos: 84





	1. 9:27

**Author's Note:**

> This mostly follows canon except that I've decided for the summer of 9:27, Alistair did his templar training in Lothering before being relocated and eventually recruited into the Grey Wardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of illness and death in this chapter.

9:27

The first time Bethany met Alistair, there was grass in his hair.

She’d seen him around before. Lothering wasn’t that big, and she knew everyone at the chantry. A new templar was news, even if he wasn’t really a templar yet. And the only place Bethany was really allowed to go by herself was the chantry. And it was by herself, because her siblings refused to come. When the hacking of her father's cough became the only sound she could hear, she fled home to sit in a pew and listen to the stories, or if none were being told, she prayed for his recovery and prayed for forgiveness for hiding from his sickness.

Not like her sister and Carver were spending their days at his bedside. When they weren’t out with her in the forest, training her to fight with them (or maybe she was training them how to fight mages), they were just… out. Bethany didn’t know where Lea got her daggers from and though she asked, Carver wouldn’t _tell_ her where he got his bruises from, and that was that. Younger than Carver by a minute, and they always seemed to leave her behind.

So she watched the new templar out of the corner of her eye as he trailed after the others doing whatever it was templars did in a town like Lothering. And he was always trailing, never with them, never among them. They didn’t talk to him. She once saw him trip in his skirts and bang his helmet against a bookshelf. Nobody laughed, but nobody stopped to help him up, either. She nearly did, before she remembered herself. The other templars just continued on their way, like he didn’t even exist.

She wondered what his secret was.

It was not that they took _too_ much notice of her. Once she got old enough to become a little noticeable, every time a man tried to talk to her, her sister had a way of stepping in front of her as if from nowhere. And Lea was more than just noticeable with her big brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and hair as bright as a sunbeam. Didn’t matter that Bethany dyed it for her from her natural black, that combination along with her pretty smile and perfect teeth and the confidence she oozed meant people saw her, and they didn’t see Bethany. 

Striking, that’s what her sister was. 

And Bethany was just… Bethany. Like the rest of her family, her hair was black. Like the rest of her family, her eyes were dark brown. Her face favored her mother, a little more angular to Malcolm’s roundness. And while Lea’s nose seemed little more than afterthought stuck on her face compared to her pretty lips and big eyes and rosy cheeks, Bethany’s was tall and straight, and every time her older sister complained about the flatness of her face, Bethany felt a smug vanity about the topography of her own.

Not that it mattered if she were pretty. A beautiful apostate was still a dead apostate if the templars found her. Or worse. And who, other than her mother, would want to marry an apostate anyway? And mother had _known_ father was a mage from the start. The Hawkes would never be able to trust anyone enough to tell them what Bethany was.

It didn’t stop her from looking. There was no harm in being observant, particularly when it came to the local templar population. It seemed every opportunity he got, Alistair was taking off his helmet, hair stuck up on all sides. Bethany wondered if it was hot in there, or hard to see, or if he just missed the ability to run his fingers through his hair, which he did constantly. Sometimes he held the helmet in front of his face, using his reflection to help him style it. He was vain.

Once she caught Alistair looking wistfully at their mabari. The first time he cracked a smile was when Porthos urinated on the little dog statues lining the bridge next to the chantry. Or maybe he smiled because Bethany cheered for him, praising him for the deed. He couldn’t have known it was the first time Porthos had lifted his leg like an adult rather than squatting like the puppy he still was. And so Bethany had clapped for the warhound, and drawn attention to herself, and the not-quite-templar smiled at her. Or them. Probably at Porthos.

She almost wished it hadn’t been such a nice smile.

Porthos might have imprinted on her sister, but Bethany started bringing him around the chantry more often after that. Andraste had a mabari. How could the Revered Mother protest?

So Bethany could not really be blamed when Porthos took off after the morning service, into the fields of Lothering. After all, he was Lea’s dog and she should have trained him better. But she didn’t, and he ran, and Bethany followed him straight to the newest templar, who was out of his armor, sitting with his back against a tree, grass in his hair, feeding her dog a bit of meat.

It was hard to be afraid of someone with grass in his hair.

He scrambled to his feet when he saw her. “I’m Alistair.”

“I know.” As angry as she was with the dog, as out of breath as she was with running, she couldn’t help noticing the breadth of the man’s shoulders. That templar armor had not been enhancing anything. He was… large. Maybe even bigger than her brother. And he was smiling.

“And might you have a name?”

If she told him her name, he might find out where she lived. Everyone knew her sister, and Bethany did not want _him_ knowing her sister. Or her brother for that matter. And her father was sick, and Bethany did what healing she could to help him, and nobody was supposed to come round. “I do,” she said, “And it’s a nice one.”

His smile only broadened. “That narrows it down. Most names are nasty, leave a foul taste on the tongue. But a nice name, those are rare enough that I bet I could guess it.”

Bethany waited, hands behind her back.

“Hortensia.”

He laughed at how quickly her nose wrinkled, and it was a nice laugh. Putting his hands in the air in mock defense, he said, “Alright, alright. Not nice enough, though four Divines might try to argue. But what do they know versus someone named… Neriah?”

Bethany liked the sound of that one better. “You’re very close. I think with the next guess you’ll hit on it for certain.”

“For certain? In that case I better think on it very hard. Who can tell what will happen if I get it wrong?”

“I think you’ll turn into a pumpkin? Or is it that other tale, where my shoes will crumble to dust or something.”

“Perish the thought of you walking home through this mud without shoes! I pledge my service, my lady,” he said with a deep and extravagant bow, “That should I not fall prey to becoming an unseasonly gourd, and should your shoes suffer the worst, I will carry you home over hill and dale to protect your feet.”

“Or you could just guess it right,” Bethany retorted.

“In that case, Isseya.”

“Alistair!” An angry voice cut in. Bethany was stunned she hadn’t heard the approach of another templar in full armor. She whipped her head around, and now that she was paying attention, the clanking of the armor sounded deafening. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she calmed the flare of magic in her hand that threatened to make itself known. “There you are. You were told to go muck out the stables, not flirt with pretty little tramps trying to turn you from your vows.”

Bethany’s cheeks burned. She thought she might throw up. She didn’t say a word, couldn’t look at either of them as she turned and ran for home.

She had been noticed.

She had been noticed by multiple templars.

She had been noticed flirting.

Nobody had ever called her something like that before, and the shame sat heavy in chest. Her father was dying, her sister and brother were out doing who knew what, and Bethany was humiliating herself in front of templars.

She sat on her bed for the rest of the day, locked in by _choice_ , locked in for her safety. With her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees, she listened as Lea told their mother that she and Carver had joined the army.

“ _Both_ of you?”

“We need the money,” Lea said simply, seemingly undisturbed by her mother’s shaky tone of voice.

“Carver is only sixteen! And your father—”

“It’s twice as much money that way.” Hawke bit into an apple as if she had no concern in life at all. “Father can check me on the math. Anyway, this is good news for you. I’m taking the dog, who, I’ve been told repeatedly, smells like horse dung on a wet summer’s eve.”

Bethany did not go back to the chantry or to town for over a week.

She stayed with her father, who did not recognize her, and worked on mending or cooking or healing or praying. And when she felt the walls of their home were closing in on her, she walked in the opposite direction of town, toward nothing in particular.

And it was in nowhere in particular, where she had been individually freezing each leaf of one tree twenty paces off in a practice of self-control and precision, that Alistair found her.

Time seemed to stand still, and she wondered if this was it, if this was the moment she’d dreaded and waited for and had nightmares about ever since she electrocuted a chicken at the age of eleven. Every day she waited for the worst to happen, and it was such a shame that the worst would come from a handsome boy who liked her dog.

But Alistair wasn’t looking at the tree. He wasn’t even really looking at Bethany. The blood pounded in her ears, and she wondered if he could really be so dense as to not even have noticed the frozen tree in the middle of summer. She started to angle herself away, trying to get him to turn his back to the evidence of her crime while he got up the nerve to speak.

“I haven’t actually taken any vows, you know. I’m not actually a templar.”

Was he debating turning her in? Was he giving her a chance? Her voice came out small and pathetic. “But you will be.”

A great sigh settled like a stone in his chest. He kicked at the dirt. “Derrick shouldn’t have said what he said about you. It was untrue and it was rude.”

Her heart started to slow as she took in what he said. She breathed for the first time in what felt like years. He really _hadn’t_ noticed the tree. He was apologizing for the other templar from the other day. She still had a chance, if she could distract him, get him away from that _bloody_ tree… To her horror, a frozen leaf fell with a plunk onto the ground and shattered.

He didn’t seem to hear. “I didn’t expect to find anyone out here… Why are you out here so close to the Wilds?” he asked, and Bethany had no reply at all. “I’ve heard there are… witches out here. They steal young girls and turn them into more witches.”

Witches didn’t get sent to Circles. Witches were slaughtered on sight by hunters. Bethany felt a tremble in her hand, but she couldn’t stop it. It traveled up her arm and to her shoulders and soon her whole body would be trembling.

“Hey,” Alistair said gently, “Don’t worry.” He took her frozen, trembling, magic-laden hand in his own. He smiled when she didn’t pull away, and his tone became more gallant. “I’ll protect you. I may not be a true templar yet, but I’ve got most of the training. Not to mention the sword.”

“Th-thank you,” she managed to get out. She allowed him to lead her out of the woods and back onto the road out of Lothering. His warm hand helped quell the shaking in hers. “I shouldn’t have strayed so far from the path.”

“I won’t tell anybody as long as you don’t. Strictly speaking, I’m supposed to be polishing armor right now.”

Out of the forest and standing here, undetected, free, she began to feel a bit giddy. Bethany grinned at the ground, and then the bushes, the sky, and finally at Alistair. “You never seem to be where you are supposed to be.”

“That’s because if I was where I was supposed to be, I would never see you. Ah, that is—” he dropped her hand, fumbling for words. “What I mean is, I wasn’t looking for you, I’m trying to say that you _only_ see me because otherwise I’d be cloistered away all day and… Maker’s breath.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“What more could they do to me? Send me to the chantry for discipline and force me to polish the entire armory? Oh, wait.”

“They could send you to a different chantry. Somewhere with fewer places to hide? Lock you away in a Circle?”

“They’re going to do that to me anyway. I might as well enjoy the sunshine while I can.” 

Bethany didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know they forced people to become templars. In Lothering, it was a better job than most, it seemed to her. And it wasn’t like the Circle, where they came into your home and ripped you from your family.

“Do you hate mages?” she blurted out.

“I… uh, well I… I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before.” He pushed his hand through his hair, looked up the sky, scuffed the dirt a little. “Is it bad if I say no? Do _you_ hate mages?”

“The chantry says they are sinful,” she responded quickly. She swallowed, trying to gauge his reaction. “But I wonder why some people would be born more sinful than others.” 

He sighed. “I don’t relish the idea of spending my life… containing them.”

Bethany shivered, though the summer air was still warm on her shoulders.

“I could walk you home,” he offered, “Stave off any particularly determined witches.”

She looked at his face, and it was sincere and open and hopeful and _handsome_ and for a moment she was afraid she would say yes. “No. It’s better if… no.” Bethany took off in a direction opposite her home, not stopping until she was certain she was out of sight. She pressed her hands against her face, as if she could _push_ Alistair out of her head. He had been too close to finding out. He was too close to her.

Maker, she wanted him a _lot_ closer.

After the tree incident, Bethany tried not to go out at all. Handsome, funny, stupid templars could show up anywhere at any time. But she thought about his words, over and over. _Might as well enjoy the sunshine while I can_. If she locked herself away, was that different than if someone else held the keys? Autumn was coming, and winter in Lothering was dark. There was still sunshine to be had, if only she would go out and take it. The Circle seemed to be in her future as much as it was in his. She idly wondered if they would end up in the same place together. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, if she was there with a friend.

When her brother and sister came home, it was only for a bit of healing. Bethany did the best she could, and Lea told her to have the poultices and potions ready next time, as many as she could manage. It was, at least, something to do, so she went into the fields to find the herbs she needed.

Of course she came upon Alistair, taking a nap in the sunshine with his head on his hands, elbows bowed out to either side of his face. “So where are you supposed to be today?” she asked.

Alistair didn’t bother opening his eyes, just smiled lazily and said, “Studying.”

“Isn’t that important for a templar? What are you meant to be studying?”

“The classes of demons.”

“Well I can help you with that, at least. Rage, Hunger, Sloth, Desire and… Pride.” She kicked herself. Normal girls didn’t go listing off demons because normal girls weren’t preparing to fight them off in their dreams at night. Pride indeed.

Alistair opened one eye to look at her. “And why would a good chantry-girl like you know that off the top of your head?”

“Because unlike some people, I actually listen when the Revered Mother talks.”

“Listening, huh? I’ve never tried that. I suppose I’ll have to give it a go one day.”

“I think you’d actually have to go to the service for it to work.” Bethany set down her basket and sat beside him. “You don’t seem to want to be a templar.”

“What gave me away? Was it the everything? I bet it was the everything.”

She snorted. He sounded awfully pleased for a man on a path he hated to a destination he abhorred. “Why don’t you run away?”

“Who says I haven’t? I just didn’t get very far.” As if to make his point, the sound of the chantry bells made their way across fields. “I’ve heard the city elves often run for the forests in hopes of finding a Dalish clan. Do you think they would take me in? A bit tall, ears too round, no talent for archery, but I’m sure I could get used to eating halla meat. And cheese.”

“Wouldn’t you have to get a tattoo on your face?”

“Blast, you’re right. So that’s a no on the Dalish. And it’s a no on running away probably.” Alistair sat up, all mirth draining from his face. “I’ve thought about it, of course. But I have no family to speak of, no home to go back to, and nothing to run toward. I’ve been promised to the chantry my whole life. They trained me, fed me, educated me, and they expect a return on their investment.” He sighed deeply. “It all feels…”

“Inevitable,” she provided. She felt it herself. Five years of magic, five years of hiding and being hidden and it was hard to imagine a lifetime of the same in front of her. Hard to imagine she wouldn’t slip up and find herself cuffed and dragged away. And maybe that would be the path of least resistance. 

Alistair nodded at her solemnly, and she decided she hated solemn on him. Maybe this was why templars were the way they were—boring and tired and strained and rude and terrifying. They were just as trapped as their mages. It wasn’t enough to make her pity them, but maybe understanding them better would help when she… when eventually she found herself…

“I think I would try to run away,” she said. But was it true? Once the Circle had her, her family would be watched. She’d have nowhere else to go. She wrapped her arms around her legs.

Alistair scooted a little closer to her. “I could consider it, if you ran with me.”

It was a romantic notion. She wondered how far they would get before he noticed her magic and turned her in. With his observational skills, maybe as far as Redcliffe. “I have a family. A mother, a father, sister, and twin brother. Are they all invited?”

“That depends. Are they all as pretty as you?”

“I daresay Carver is a fair bit prettier,” she replied. Alistair threw his head back in laughter, and when he recovered, he seemed somehow closer than before. Bethany was suddenly aware of every small movement he made, and she felt overly aware of her own breathing.

“I very much doubt that,” he said, his voice suddenly low and deep.

"It's true," she replied weakly. Maker, his eyes were lovely. 

“If you keep finding me every time I sneak off,” he said, “I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

Bethany did like him. She liked him a lot. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not when he was this close. Not when she was begging him to come closer. “Maybe you’re just that bad at sneaking.”

He brushed a piece of hair away from her face. “Then I can’t think of any incentive to get better.”

She had been watching his mouth when he spoke, finding herself rather suddenly mesmerized by his lips, and now her gaze flicked back up to his eyes. She found her voice, but only just. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Of course I do. Isseya.”

And then he _was_ closer, her nose brushing his, close enough for her to feel his breath, close enough to smell the soap he used on his face, close enough to be tickled by the stubble on his chin—when Bethany heard her name being called from across the field.

She scrambled to her feet, away from Alistair, the _templar_ , and thanked the Maker that the tall summer grasses hid them from sight. She got one last look at him sitting there stunned as she grabbed her basket, then she ran for her mother. 

Her father’s health had taken a turn. And her mother could cry and beg for Bethany to do something, _anything_ , but his lungs didn’t work anymore. So a letter was sent to the army, and the two of them sat with each of his hands in one of theirs, and they waited and wondered which long, rattling breath would be the last one.

They didn’t have the funeral until Lea and Carver came home. It wasn’t quite an argument, because arguments required words, but Bethany knew there was a disagreement about whether they should just do it at home or go to the chantry. In the end, Lea let her mother win, because she always let her mother win, and coin was spent and a priest was called and what was left of the Hawke family stood by a pyre together.

Bethany wondered if Alistair was watching. It seemed stupid now, to worry about him learning her name or meeting Lea or Carver. Dreading things didn’t stop them from happening and it didn’t stop them from being terrible when they did. And in any event, when her father finally died, her first feeling had been _relief_ , and didn’t that make her a monster? Hadn’t they been right all along, that she was born sinful to have thoughts like that?

So she wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see Alistair again. Maybe he saw her for what she was. If not a mage, then sinful. Tainted.

Or maybe he did run away. Without her.

Whatever the cause, she never saw him in Lothering again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was very much inspired by three Bethistair fics I tore through this past week-- 
> 
> Sunshine in the Dark by Kauri: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18568123/chapters/44014762  
> An End to Loneliness by Smutnug: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010982/chapters/49969412  
> Take My Hand (so I know you're the real thing) by Sarsaparillia: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990040/chapters/15928444


	2. 9:33- August

Bethany had heard the rumors. The king had been a Grey Warden. The king was a bastard. The king was at the Hero of Ferelden’s side when she stopped the blight and killed the archdemon. The king was handsome. The king was an idiot. The king was a bachelor.

A bachelor could mean many things, including that he was only twenty-three and hadn’t decided to start producing heirs yet. It could also mean that he didn’t like women. It could mean he liked women _too_ much. Not that Bethany was opposed to being liked, particularly by handsome hero kings, but she had her guard up when she was called to meet him.

How did the King of Ferelden even know her name?

She was only in Denerim for a few days while she was passed from one Warden group to another. Never enough mages and someone pulled rank to get a healer transferred from the Marches. She was supposed to be in what passed for the Denerim Warden Headquarters for two nights before moving on to Vigil’s Keep, but the moment she reached the city, she was summoned to the palace. From there, she was ushered into the king’s private office, a place she had never thought to be, and waited. It seemed ridiculous to think the king could possibly be _her_ Alistair. For all she knew, the country was full of Alistairs, and in any event, he had never even learned her name. She scanned the books and little carved statues on his shelves, and she couldn’t be sure if she felt hope or dread.

Her eyes had just fallen on a copy of _Hard in Hightown—_ she’d have to inform Varric—when she sensed him coming down the hall. That was proof enough of one rumor at least. He had been a Warden. The door flung open, and a mabari charged through and launched itself onto a bed next to the desk. Her Alistair followed it.

“Warden Hawke,” he said warmly, “Pleased to meet you.”

So he didn’t know her name. Or he didn’t know that he didn’t know her name. Bethany wasn’t sure if she should curtsy or shake his hand or salute. She settled on a sort of head bob, her eyes dropping to the floor and a murmured, “Your majesty.” 

He held up a hand. “Maker, please. Wardens don’t need to bother with titles like that. Call me Alistair.” She took in a good look at him then. Five years had changed so much, and almost nothing at all. He was taller and somehow even broader. His sandy hair was longer, he was finally able to grow a _beard_ , and Maker forgive her, but it suited him. His face was less round, more rugged, maybe, but he still had that open smile that somehow, after all she had experienced, had her knees weak and her cheeks blushing. _You are a grown-ass Warden_ , she reminded herself. “Sorry,” Alistair cut into her thoughts, “Have we met before? You look very familiar to me.”

Bethany wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed he had forgotten her. She supposed it depended on why he had asked her here. “I’m sure the King of Ferelden has met thousands of people. They all must blend together after a while. I’ve been told us southern girls all look alike.”

“I’m certain I wouldn’t forget a face as striking as yours.” He delivered the line sincerely, softly, and Bethany was blushing down to her toes now. “I mean, uh, what I was trying to say is…” He shook his head and laughed. “Oh, Maker, no, there’s really no other meaning for that, is there?”

He was _charming_ , and Bethany would have thought the taint rendered her immune from charm, but here she was and she was _charmed_. She wondered if he used this line on everyone. Part of her didn’t really care. Not that a handsome man was enough to completely knock her off balance anymore. “I was told you asked for me specifically?”

“ _Yes_ , and it was not to flirt with you. Thank you for coming.” His face turned sterner and his voice deepened as he spoke to the issue at hand. “I am heading to the Free Marches to see how fare our refugees and hopefully win a bit of support as Ferelden recovers from the Blight. I was told you were such a refugee before joining the Order.”

“I was, your—um, Alistair.”

He gave her another strange look, trying to place her, surely, before continuing. “I’ve gotten word from the leaders in Kirkwall regarding the treatment of refugees, but I thought it would behoove me to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were. Not that, that is to say, _you_ aren’t horse-like, ah…”

He ran his fingers through his hair just like he used to, and Bethany decided she _was_ disappointed he didn’t remember her. She couldn’t believe her teenage self hadn’t kissed that man when she had the chance.

“My family still resides in Kirkwall. My sister tends to know everything happening in town, so if you visit, maybe you should talk to her. I’ll warn you: she won’t give you the nobles’ tour of it. She’s spent a lot of time in the slums dealing with the worst of what Kirkwall has to offer.”

Alistair nodded. “Given the reputation of that city, I can only imagine.” He frowned, and for a moment the man looked bone-tired. “Maker, where are my manners?” he suddenly lamented. “Please, sit down.”

Bethany took her seat across the desk from him.

“When I meet your sister, is there anything I can do to make a good impression?” He shook his head, adding, “Perhaps a better impression than I’ve made on you?”

Bethany’s answer was quick. “Give her a mabari.”

“Pardon?”

“You have kennels of them, don’t you? She’s a true-born Fereldan. Give her a mabari and she’ll do anything you want.”

“That simple?”

Bethany smiled at him. “It would work on me, but I don’t think mabari are allowed in the Wardens.”

As if he knew they were talking about him, Alistair’s mabari stood up, stretched, and placed his head on Bethany’s lap. She scratched him behind the ears and looked up to see Alistair’s expression had shifted again, now looking almost sad.

“I know for a fact that they are.”

“And how would the King of Ferelden be so well-versed in the rules of the Wardens?” she teased.

It was the worst-kept secret in Thedas that he had been a Warden. Technically he still was, since it was for life. Still, everyone pretended like it had never happened, and Alistair seemed happy enough to play his part. Or at least he wasn’t hanging griffon banners in the throne room and forfeiting his country to the Order.

He smiled innocently. “I take an interest in all of the organizations that occupy my country.”

Bethany took a deep breath, and before she could stop herself, she said, “I suppose you must have a great understanding of the codes the Templars live by as well, then.”

She watched as he put two and two together, the memory dawning on his face as bright as a sunbeam. “That’s where I know you from. Lothering.” And then, softer, “Isseya.”

“Bethany,” she corrected him.

“Bethany,” he repeated, “Bethany Hawke.” She had waited five years to hear him say that, and the delight in his voice warmed her through her bones. “A very nice name. And you were a mage!” he laughed. If Bethany had been afraid the revelation would disappoint him, she needn’t have been. She didn’t think he could smile any broader. “An apostate in Lothering. Of course you were. Oh, I would have made a terrible templar. Right there under my nose.”

“Pressed up against it for a moment there.”

Maker damn her if he didn’t blush at that. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t using practiced lines on her. Maybe he wasn’t some skilled flirt who stayed unmarried just to take as many women as he could to his bed. Not if so innocent a memory could turn his ears that red.

“I went through Lothering after Ostagar,” he said softly, “And I… looked for you. I feared you were…”

Before Bethany could respond, a loud knock came at the door and a man walked in. “Apologies, Warden, but the King has matters that need his attention.”

Alistair heaved a sigh. “This meeting has not yet concluded, Jan.”

“You have other meetings,” the man said meaningfully, adding, a little belatedly in Bethany’s opinion, “Your majesty.”

“Of course,” Alistair responded with a nod, dismissing him. When the door shut again, he said, “Pardon me, Warden—Bethany—but the pompous toad is right. I do have places to be.” He paused, considering something before deciding, “Would you be available for supper? I don’t have any plans then and I’d love to hear how you… well everything.”

“Only if you bring him,” she said, a head tilted at the dog still resting on her knee.

“Deal.”

~~

For the first time in years, Bethany didn’t know what to wear. She didn’t have many options, but she was in a city and had a small amount of spending money. Did a private dinner with the King of Ferelden require a fancy dress? She did not have the coin for that. She had never attended a function as a Warden, or as anything else for that matter, but she supposed they wore their uniforms. She did have her regular clothes with her, clothes meant for cooking and cleaning and mending and _toiling_. But it might make things less awkward if she looked like she did when they met the first time. Closer to it, anyway. She could probably find a nicer shirt in the market, maybe something with a little embroidery, fewer patches. 

When Bethany was a girl, she loved stories of kings and queens and romance and magic. Her father told the best ones, including the story of how a humble mage stole the heart of the most beautiful noblewoman in Kirkwall, how they fled and lived happily ever after. In the stories, magic wasn’t so bad, unless it was, and men were kind and women were brave and evil was defeated. Bethany used to dream of wearing fancy dresses and going to balls like her mother did. She had also dreamed of getting married and being a mother and living happily ever after. As an apostate, she knew it was unlikely to happen, but she hoped.

The taint drove the nail through the coffin. She couldn’t have children, so there was no real point to marriage. Nobody liked to spend time with Wardens, so they never got invited anywhere nice. The closest she’d come to palaces before Denerim were the abandoned thaigs underground.

Maybe that was why Wardens were so free with themselves. Once she had recovered from her Joining and had stopped crying long enough to open her eyes and take in the situation, Bethany had realized quickly that almost everyone was sleeping with almost everyone else. Or at least, that was how it felt to her at the time. If she had thought her sister brazen, now Lea appeared a wilting flower who only set her sights on one partner at a time.

Of course, it could have been because those Wardens were all Orlesian.

Bethany made it clear she wasn’t interested. Or rather, she wasn’t available. She did take a sort of interest. Sitting in her tiny room, she couldn’t help but hear the noises coming from the others. She wasn’t _eavesdropping_ , because it’s not like she could have escaped the sounds, but it was an education. So that was what sex sounded like, the start, the middle, the end. And that was about how long it took, give or take. She found herself putting a lot of energy into reading the books Isabela had sent her—steamy books. Some of them might as well have been instruction manuals. And after reading through each of them at least three times, Bethany decided she was ready to try a few things out for herself. She chose a Warden who she thought would be gentle, no romance necessary, and when it was done, she penned a note to Isabela to thank her.

She received eight more books in response.

Seeing Alistair, being in Denerim out of her Warden uniform, she suddenly felt like the little girl who hoped for romance and chivalry and elegance in a life that was so often cruel and dirty and boring. She knew better on all accounts, and it was foolish to entertain her romantic notions for even a moment. She was already regretting her clothes as she walked toward the palace, and she felt like a complete idiot when she arrived at the gate. It took ages to get a guard to even speak to her, and after a sweep of the eyes he responded, “You don’t _look_ like a Warden.”

“And how many Wardens have you seen?”

“One. And _she_ killed an archdemon.”

Bethany swore under her breath, then closed her eyes and searched for the taint. If she could feel Alistair, maybe he would feel her back and come out and rescue her. She’d kick herself forever if her last impression on him was not showing up for supper.

It was not Alistair that found her at the gate, but his mabari, Angus, who woofed and scratched until he had drawn everyone’s attention.

“Hello, Ango,” Bethany said, reaching her fingers through the grate for him to sniff. He shoved his entire face into her hand, begging for a pat, which she gladly gave, then he turned and growled at the guard.

The guard looked at the dog nervously, then at his colleague, who shrugged. Angus barked then, loud and annoyed, and the guard snapped to attention. “I suppose you really must be a Warden, or a friend of the King if… Apologies, Warden, Angus.”

“Accepted, guardsman,” she said for both of them as he opened the side door for her and allowed her through. Angus pranced happily next to her. “Do you know where I’m meant to go, boy? Or do you go by ‘ser’ around these parts?”

He led her through the palace, and it seemed having him to accompany her meant nobody questioned her at all. She supposed after a dog helped fight an archdemon, he attained a certain sort of rank in the court. At his mercy, they wound around to the kitchens, where an elf tossed him a cut of meat and told him that was it for the night. Then Angus led her to the practice yards. The summer sun had not yet set, but few people were about at this hour. Angus procured a large stick and dropped it at her feet.

She put her hands on her hips. “You know, I was supposed to be having supper with you.”

The dog just wagged his stump of a tail and nudged the stick again.

“What if Alistair eats it all without us?”

As the dog cocked his head at her, she heard a loud chuckle behind her. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Alistair said, “I’ve been known to stuff my face. May I?”

He gestured at the stick, and Bethany nodded. He threw it well across the yard, the mabari racing after it with a spray of dirt behind him. Bethany quickly wiped the dirt off her skirts—so much for new clothes and looking respectable in a palace—and grinned at Alistair.

“You have, ah, just there,” he said, reaching out and brushing off her bare shoulder. Bethany felt the flush in her cheeks and a warmth in her belly. 

“Bethen—I mean, Warden. I mean… Beth.” Alistair stared at the air in front of him, as if he could see the garbled words leaving his mouth.

“Ali,” she retorted, “Or would you prefer just ‘stair’?”

“For most of my life I think it was just ‘hey you.’ But point taken. Bethany,” he said, annunciating every syllable, “May I lead you to supper?”

He held out his arm, head slightly bowed, and Bethany tried not to look too exceedingly pleased as she took it. _This is not real life, Beth_ , she told herself, _Do not get attached to any part of it_.

Nobody gave them a second look as Alistair led her through the halls. Maybe her earlier assessment was wrong and he _did_ do this often. And would that be so bad? She was only in town for two nights. With her hand on his very strong and obviously capable arm, she could think of _lots_ of things to do with that time.

Alistair cut into her thoughts, which was just as well. “Thank you for coming tonight. You saved me from another evening of nobles telling me exactly what I’m doing wrong in their part of the country. I want to say it was Gwaren tonight?”

“Oh? I thought you didn’t have dinner plans.”

“That’s right.” He grinned. “I didn’t. After I canceled them.”

Bethany stopped in the hallway and dropped his arm. “After all this time, are you still _never_ where you are supposed to be?”

“Not when I’m in your presence, it seems,” he muttered. He opened a door just ahead of them and ushered her in. “As king, there are fewer things they can do to me in retaliation at least. As far as I’m aware, they can’t send the king to a remote palace and hope he suddenly toes the line.”

The room was small, but beautiful. Fancy. Heavy drapes over the windows, silver place settings for two, soft candlelight from filigreed holders, a tablecloth finer than any piece of clothing Bethany had ever owned, and the part of her that had spent too much time with her sister in Kirkwall was already calculating how much money they could get for fencing all of it. Cynical—that was what she had become. Cynical and lusty, and with that man leveling that smile at her, there wasn’t room for it.

“You know,” she blurted out, “When I heard the new king was named Alistair, I didn’t really think he could possibly be _my_ Alistair.”

He ducked his head. “ _Your_ Alistair?”

“I—oh, blighted pissbuckets.” Alistair coughed at her choice of profanity, and really, what a _way_ to ruin a fairy tale. She was cynical and lusty and coarse, and at least she broke the spell early rather than late. She sat down in her chair to the continued chuckles of her king and muttered, “You know what I meant.”

“I… I think I do,” he said warmly as he sat across from her. It wasn’t _right_ how forgiving he appeared to be, how easily he made her forget her awkwardness. If he continued to be charming, Bethany would… well she’d be charmed. Spellbound. Swept off her feet and ruined for her return to the Grey Wardens. “This afternoon, inviting you here was an excuse. When I heard there was a Warden in town, I racked my brain to come up with any reason to talk. I never could have imagined you would have walked through the door. Pure dumb luck on my part.”

Servants came through the door then, wine was poured, food set out, and though Bethany was well past her Joining, the hunger had never truly gone away, and she had never seen food as fine as this. For the first time in her life, she silently thanked her mother for teaching her table manners.

“If it was all an excuse, what _did_ you want to talk about?”

Alistair tugged at his beard. “Seems a bit silly to say it out loud.” Bethany busied herself by putting food in her mouth and waited him out. “Oh, alright. The short of it is I miss being a Warden. The camaraderie. The travel. The singular focus on one all-encompassing goal.”

“How did you become one? Last I heard, you were destined to be a templar.”

Alistair told her how after being caught so many times shirking his duties in Lothering, he was sent to a remote monastery. There, forced into quiet contemplation for hours every day, he thought he would go mad.

“You know, I spent some of those quiet, contemplative hours writing you letters, but every time I thought to send them, I couldn’t figure out how to address them. Just writing, ‘prettiest girl in Lothering,’ would get it confiscated by the brothers for certain.”

He told her how he was saved from the monastery by the Wardens, about his Joining and the months he spent in the barracks. And he told her how he came to meet the Hero of Ferelden in Ostagar, and what followed that ill-fated battle.

It was clear as soon as he mentioned her that Alistair had been in love with her. How quickly the warmth in her belly soured, but she pushed it aside. Ridiculous to be jealous of dead woman. Even more ridiculous, she realized, to think there could have been something between her and Alistair tonight. In the haze of childhood dreams and wealth and nobility, she had allowed herself to be misled. Alistair knew as well as anyone could that Bethany had no future. His blushing and awkwardness were no act, just the actions of a good man whose heart was elsewhere.

Bethany was good at smiling when she didn’t feel like smiling. She was also very good at tamping down envy and being the second best woman in a room, or third, or fourth best, even if, in this case, the first woman was a ghost. The food was good, Alistair’s stories were interesting, his jokes made her laugh, and her own foolish hopes were no reason to spoil this evening.

Alistair’s story of the blight was disjointed—hard edges as he brushed by details too painful to share. She didn’t need to know the details of the battle of Ostagar to know he lost someone there. Lost _something_ there. The machinations that led him to become king were obviously another sore spot, a wound barely healed if healed at all. The most he said about the archdemon was that it was dead.

Bethany’s own story of the last five years was equally fraught.

She couldn’t really have told anyone what happened the year after her brother was killed. She knew her family fled without him, not even giving him a proper burial or a goodbye. She knew they took a boat to Kirkwall, though she couldn’t have said how long the journey lasted or if the weather was fair or foul. She knew her uncle sold her into slavery for a year, though later she couldn’t remember why. Was it to pay off his debts?

“ _You_ also met Flemeth?” Alistair asked. The coincidence seemed too ridiculous to be real. Some old witch living in the forest had plucked him out of a tower, and her from that very same horde of darkspawn, and saved them both? In a matter of days? “We pretended to kill her, you know. Morrigan asked us to, and Lyna brought us back into the woods, stared her down, and agreed that the four of us were not capable of taking down a solitary batty old woman.”

“Maker’s breath, Ali, she turned into a dragon in front of me and demolished an army of darkspawn. Lyna was right.”

“She did _what?_ ”

It was already late into the evening by then, dinner being long finished, and Bethany’s laugh turned into a very large yawn.

“Excuse me,” she said, but Alistair had already stood up from the table.

“Apologies, my lady, I hadn’t realized how late it was.”

“My lady?” Bethany asked, eyebrow in the air.

“All evidence to the contrary, I do have manners. Fairly good ones, when I remember them.”

That wasn’t what she was getting at, but she didn’t correct him. Bethany was a commoner apostate Warden, and even if her sister had somehow reclaimed the title of their mother’s family, Bethany would never hold it. Her evening was over, the fairy tale finished, and she took Alistair’s proffered arm. The child in her wanted to hold out hope, leave behind a token he’d have to return, break a shoe on her way out the door and be carried straight into true love. Her sixteen-year-old self would have settled for that kiss she never got, and Bethany the Warden would forever regret not having the chance to bed this man, but even so, this evening, the whole day had been magical.

It had been _good_ to see Alistair, healthy and broad and handsome, to solve a mystery of her youth, see that something good had survived the Blight and Lothering and everything else.

Alistair pressed a very chaste kiss to her hand, a firm dismissal, and her heart fluttered all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I really love the idea that the guards defer to the dog's orders.
> 
> Also worth noting-- this is not Alistair preparing to visit Hawke in Kirkwall after she's Champion. This is a different visit, prior to that whole Champion thing.


	3. 9:33- August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of alcohol in this chapter. Also grief and grieving.

Alistair couldn’t come up with another excuse to see Bethany. He started thinking about it the moment she left after supper, while he could still see her walking away. She mentioned being in town for another day, and he couldn’t think of a single reason to get her to come back.

Well, he could think of a lot of _bad_ excuses—an update on the Ferelden Wardens, which he knew she didn’t have, sparring practice, which made no sense for a mage, supper, _again_ , for no other reason than he liked her smile and could look at it for hours.

It was hopeless.

If he had known that the girl whose smile had haunted his dreams for _years_ were coming to Denerim, he would have had something planned. A tourney, perhaps. An event to honor the Wardens in Ferelden. A ball. He might have been able to stomach a ball if it meant Bethany would be there in a gown. He already couldn’t stop thinking about her collarbones, and he really should stop. Any minute now.

He even checked their dining room to see if perhaps she had forgotten something, a token, anything, that he would need to return personally.

Perhaps it was for the best.

By now, the rumors that he had been entertaining a woman would have reached Eamon’s ears. The man would be celebrating, until he probed his spies further and learned she was a Warden. Wardens did not produce heirs, and that was what everything came down to. Only two years since Lyna ended the Blight, and Eamon had seemingly paraded every noblewoman in the country in front of him. He had felt sorry for these poor women who sometimes traveled for weeks just to spend an hour being politely tolerated by him, but not sorry enough to give Eamon what he wanted.

With news that he had expressed interest in any woman at all, Alistair could expect another grand push from the man of women to marry or bed.

“I was on the tower with her when she took down the archdemon,” Eamon had told him, and the man might as well have shoved a knife straight into Alistair’s back. “In her sacrifice, the Hero did what was best for Ferelden. Now you need to.”

An heir. He only needed one. If only he didn’t have to be in the room for the whole thing.

When Bethany left the palace and took all the good cheer he’d had in two years with her, Alistair found his thoughts turning dark again. Somehow remembering that he did know how to laugh and flirt and smile made his regular existence feel that much more empty. But the dark thoughts were an old habit by now. He felt guilty for living, and then he felt guilty for not living well enough to justify his living. He felt guilty for wallowing in his grief for as long as he did, because he knew Lyna wouldn’t want it, and today he got to feel guilty for having a nice evening with a beautiful woman who wasn’t Lyna. Whole hours had gone by without him thinking about her, missing her, grieving her. And he hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t thought about her. And that hurt, too.

So Alistair slept fitfully, if he slept at all. He had once told Lyna he hoped she would be the last woman he would ever take to his bed. Of course, a month later she had invited Isabela to their bed, so he hadn’t exactly kept his word on that. But this was different. Even if he never touched her again, he _liked_ Bethany. He wanted her to like him. He wasn’t sure if he was betraying his word, or himself, or Lyna, but certainly as he suffered through his morning meetings and his thoughts drifted back to the rose in Bethany’s cheeks when she smiled, he was engaged in betrayal.

In the afternoon, Alistair changed into the outfit he used when sneaking out, and he snuck out.

The monument was one of his first projects as king—a memorial to the Hero of Ferelden. Even during construction people came to sit by it, leave flowers or food or simply place a hand on the stone. She wasn’t buried there—there hadn’t been anything left to bury—but it was treated with the same reverence. Or perhaps it served as a remembrance for all the citizens of Denerim who were never found. A place to remember sacrifice and survival. The base of the monument was carved with halla. He’d insisted—he knew in ten years it would be forgotten that she was Dalish, and in twenty that she was even an elf. Someone had planted Andraste’s Grace around the front, then others added laurels and rosebushes. Vines already twined their way over the halla and toward the enormous griffon statue they supported.

The traffic from people coming to pay their respects drew in traders, then semi-permanent market stalls, and now the area was a smaller market district. Alistair had benches installed around the monument for the purely selfish reason that he wanted a place to sit and stare and listen. Being king was odd, that way. He wanted benches, and benches he now had. He didn’t do the quiet contemplation in the Chantry that was expected of him, not after all the years it was forced on him, but a noisy marketplace where he could be mistaken for any mourning citizen helped him gather his thoughts.

As he approached his preferred spot to stare vacantly at the world, just under a tree that had been cracked in half by magic and somehow still lived, Alistair was not surprised to feel the familiar sensation of another Warden nearby, or for Angus to take off at a run in that direction.

“Hallo, Ango,” Bethany said before looking over her shoulder to find him. Maker, the way the sunlight struck her face was dazzling. He stopped in his tracks. “You really are never where you are supposed to be,” she called, and his feet remembered how to walk of their own accord. “Not changed a wit in five years.”

“I’ve been told I’m fairly witless,” he replied.

Bethany waited until he was next to her before dropping her voice to say, “As a Warden, I’m allowed to use offensive magic against people who besmirch the reputation of other Wardens. Just say the word.”

“Which word?” he asked, overly innocent.

“I meant—Just tell me when you want me to—Oh, _you_.” Bethany dropped her head back and turned away upon understanding his terrible joke.

And despite the location and the day and his mood, Alistair laughed. “It’s not besmirching if they are right.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” she muttered, though there was no bite in it. “I just came here to pay my respects,” she explained without him asking, “As a Warden, and a Fereldan. I wanted to see where it… where it all ended.”

“Technically it ended up there,” Alistair said with a nod toward the empty sky over the ruins of Fort Drakon.

They both fell silent. Alistair felt—Maker, he felt _bad_. It was a sunny day in a busy marketplace in the city she had given to him, and he stood laughing in front of her grave with some woman he didn’t really know. As if he could ever—as if that part of him wasn’t irreparably _broken_.

Bethany wandered over to read the plaque adorning the monument, and politeness drove him to follow her. Bethany bowed her head. “I doubt I’ll accomplish in an entire lifetime a tenth of what she managed in just a year.”

“Imagine if she had gotten another twenty.” The words came out bitter and harsh and were followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Bethany noticed. Of course she noticed, how could she not? He was practically weeping in front of her. Not that her opinion of him mattered. Not when she was leaving tomorrow and he was… like this. He thought to apologize, but Bethany took one of his hands in both of hers and the words died in his throat. The gesture was earnest, heartfelt. Warm. She squeezed his hand and didn’t let go.

“I thought I might have something wise to say,” she said after a time. “But it doesn’t get easier, does it? Since I lost my brother…” She sighed and looked back down at their hands. “They say that time heals all wounds, but I don’t think the hole in my heart has gotten any smaller with time. It’s still a big, gaping chasm. I’ve just gotten better at not falling in.”

His grief didn’t feel like a hole, but maybe it would if he ever climbed out of it. He didn’t even know where to _start_. He only knew that for a few moments, Bethany had made him feel like himself again, and he couldn’t remember when he stopped feeling like himself.

He stared at their hands in silence for too long. A bell rang, a carriage rolled by. An argument broke out about the price of bread. An old woman hummed a song while weeding along the monument. It was the sound of a dog barking that jerked Bethany’s hands out of his, and the spell was broken.

“I should head back,” she said with a swallow, “I need to take an inventory of the storehouse. It was ransacked a couple years ago and needs to be restocked. The things people will do in Blight, right?”

“Yeah,” was all Alistair managed.

If he’d been clever, he thought as she walked away, he would have offered to help. He would have told her exactly where those weapons and supplies went, where they were now, and offered to replace them. He would have bought her dinner at a tavern or off a cart. He would have walked straight out of Denerim with her and never looked back. But Alistair wasn’t clever, and Lyna had left him a massive job to do. Rule Ferelden. Produce an heir. Survive.

He jumped when his shadow decided to speak.

“Who was _that_?” Zevran asked him.

Alistair did not want to know just how much the man had overheard or how long he had been following him today. It was probably since breakfast. He’d thought one of his sausages had disappeared from his plate but decided in the end he must have eaten it without noticing. Now he knew it was definitely Zevran.

“My king,” Zevran said with a stupidly deep bow.

Alistair sighed and began trudging toward his favorite bench. “I hardly think I’m _your_ king. That would imply someone _rules_ you.”

“You are undoubtedly my favorite king.”

“How many do you know?”

“More than you might think.” Alistair sat heavily, not bothering to leave much room on either side of him. Undeterred, Zevran perched next to him, sitting on the back of the bench with his feet on the seat. “Now, are you going to tell me who that beautiful woman was? Or will I have to go introduce myself to her myself?”

“Warden Bethany Hawke,” he replied, trying to keep his voice and face as level as possible. It didn’t matter. A growl crept in there somehow and Zevran knew everything he needed to know.

“And you are letting such an attractive woman walk away from you… why?”

“Is there a reason you’re here, Zevran?”

“There is. But for now, I’m content to talk about this.”

“She’s a Warden.” Alistair heaved a sigh as his eyes fell on the monument again. “And I…” _She cannot give me an heir_ , he thought, _And I made a promise. The first and last._ He gestured stupidly at the air.

Zevran nodded sadly. “Ah. I see. You _are_ witless.”

Alistair fell into an annoyed silence. Could a man not go to the most crowded corner of town and wallow by himself? He had dark and stupid thoughts to entertain, and he had not asked for old friends to show up and ruin his terrible mood. But Zevran… He sighed. Zevran probably missed Lyna as much as he did, and that was probably the true reason he had run into him here today.

“I came here to talk to her, you know,” he admitted. “Not Bethany, I mean—"

“I understand, my friend.”

“Perhaps it was fate I found you instead.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Lyna never talks back.”

“Strictly speaking, I found you. I don’t think you have the skills to find me.”

“You have me there.”

Zevran sighed and placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “I cannot speak for Lyna, but I think… I think I just saw you laugh for the first time in months. And yes, it was followed by… whatever this mood is you’re in. But I know that Lyna loved your smile more than anything else in this dreary country. She told me it was her strongest weapon against the Blight. It would be a shame to lose it out of a sense of duty or fear. Or to this… growth you have on your face.”

Alistair’s hand flew to his chin. “You mean my beard?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Alistair let his arms fall to his side and closed his eyes. Lyna was not here, and he would never again hear her counsel. Maker help them all if Zevran was the next best thing.

“Do you know what I think?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Most of the time, yes.”

Alistair snorted. “I think I look really nice with a beard.”

Alistair stared at the griffon for a moment longer. It was the dream of a child to be a noble hero, slaying the beast and living happily ever after with his first love. Lyna knew it. She told him as much. People weren’t always good and kind, villains weren’t always redeemed or defeated, but strength was in perseverance and survival and laughing in the face of it all.

Bethany Hawke was only in town for one more day, and then he would probably never see her again. There wasn’t much point in chasing after her. But perhaps one day Alistair would fall in love again, and dear Uncle Eamon would get his dearest wish and it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Why are you really here, Zev?”

“I will tell you when you return to the palace. After all, I think you will now be distracted getting your mabari back.”

“My what?” Alistair sat upright and looked around. As the man said, Angus was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t even noticed. “Where?”

Zevran shook his head and tsked. “I believe he is more… forthright about following pretty women than even I am.”

“Andraste’s ass,” Alistair swore. “Zevran, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Come now, your majesty, be optimistic. You are still a handsome fellow, no? Let’s say tomorrow morning.”

Alistair bid the man farewell with a roll of the eyes and another curse. 

He hadn’t been to the Warden headquarters since he and Lyna had looted it years ago. He was a little surprised to see this part of the market still standing, untouched, when twenty paces over all the buildings were new. And somehow, the old warehouse still seemed abandoned. Alistair pushed past long-forgotten goods, the owners probably dead in the Blight, come to think of it, and made his way to the back.

He heard Bethany before he saw her. She sounded frantic, and he automatically shifted into a fighting stance before he realized what she was saying.

“You have to go back,” she hissed. “He’ll think I stole you.”

Alistair peered around the tower of junk, but all he could see was the wiggly behind of Angus. Was she arguing with his dog?

“You have to go back to the palace, and if anyone asks, I did _not_ invite you here.”

Angus woofed in response, and Alistair had to take deep, slow breaths to stop himself from laughing and giving away his cover.

“Look. Angus. Ango. The time we had together was very special, and I will never forget it. Truly. But I’m a Warden. And you are companion to the King. We have our duties.”

Angus whined, though Alistair could still see his wagging stump of a tail. There was confidence in that dog, and apparently rightly so because Bethany’s next words were, “Oh fine. You can stay the night. But tomorrow morning I’m leaving, and you need to go home and nobody can know where you were. Understood?”

Alistair stepped out into the light and said, “You have my word.”

“Alistair!” Bethany gasped, and he was delighted to see her entire face turn red. Less delighted when she shook out her closed fist and sparks flew to the floor, though a fist full of magic might have been worth it for the expression on her face. It was probably deserved, at the least.

Her eyes spoke volumes of betrayal at the dog as she said, “I thought mabari _warned_ people when other people were approaching.”

“Now there’s an idea. Maybe I could have him announce me to every room I enter like a little squire.” He turned to the dog. “Angus, say, ‘The King of Ferelden!’”

Angus barked in a distinctly annoyed way and walked off to sniff something in the corner. Bethany, meanwhile, was staring meaningfully at the floor. Maker, he had just told himself he would be fine never seeing her again, and yet here she had him smiling like a fool again. He had to take mercy on her.

“Warden Hawke, I had a sudden memory about those supplies and the alleged ransacking.”

She snorted. “You know what happened?”

“Yes. We ransacked the supplies. Then we fenced them. For something better.”

“What was that?”

“As I recall, drakeskin boots and about ten pints of ale.”

Bethany huffed a laugh, her shoulders untensing. “I’m going to have to report this to my commanding officer.”

“I think that’s for the best. But when you do, please be sure to remind him that I granted him an Arling. That’s got to be worth at least… three pints of ale?”

“And they say the nobility is out of touch with the common man.”

“Who says that?”

Bethany finally looked him in the face. “I do. You don’t even remember how to dress like a normal person. Look at those clothes. Not a single patch on them. You call this a disguise?”

“No,” he lied, “I call them clothes. Which they are.” Bethany’s cheeks had still not recovered from their blushing, and Alistair felt an odd tugging sensation, right about his middle, like he was being pulled. It wasn’t magic, it was—he didn’t know what it was. Just a quick tug and then a sensation of lightness, like when he shucked his heavy armor and found his limbs could move effortlessly. He did not want Bethany to leave tomorrow, and if he wanted to get that across, this was his opportunity. He cleared his throat. “As someone who is _deeply_ in touch with the common citizens of my realm, I can tell you there is an outstanding food stall in the market about two streets down that sells meat on a stick for very reasonable prices.”

“How reasonable?”

“For you, Warden? About the cost of three pints.”

“I think I’ll need those three pints to eat street meat.”

“As you wish.” 

He bought her that meat on a stick and her three pints. Also some crepes with a bit of cream and fruit and a roasted sweet potato that caught his eye. And he grimaced when, despite his clothes and his common mannerisms, the sellers called him majesty. To Bethany’s credit, she smirked each time with a meaningful glance at him and a healthy dose of gloating.

After he had spent the previous evening talking her ears off, he was content to listen to her relay stories of her time in Kirkwall. He couldn’t think of a worse place to be an apostate, and yet Bethany spent her time sneaking into mansions and befriending the Dalish and lighting people on fire in _front_ of templars. And cheating at cards. By the sound of it, her sister attracted people are readily as Lyna had. They were just as strange and yet, some were strikingly familiar.

“You know Isabela?” Bethany sputtered, laying her cards on the table of the very same establishment where he had met the woman. “Isabela the pirate?”

“Isabela the duelist?” he suggested.

“For Isabela!” a cheer went up from a table over, and it carried around the room. Alistair lifted his own tankard in salute.

Bethany went pale. “No, you mean—you _know_ her. I mean you—you…”

Alistair should probably have stopped grinning and talking at this point, but instead he said, “She gave us a tour of her ship.” 

“Us? As in you and--? I can’t believe this is happening,” Bethany groaned.

“In my defense, it wasn’t my idea.” The moment the words were out, Alistair really knew he shouldn’t have said that. And he definitely shouldn’t have followed it up with, “But the reviews were… glowing.”

Bethany was glowing now, too, an angry shade of red. Alistair raised his tankard to his lips and found the ale had frozen solid. He clanked it back down on the table.

“I deserve that.”

“And I deserve three more ales,” Bethany muttered.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Bethany,” he said, holding out her name for far too long. “Did Isabela never offer you a tour of her ship? A quick trip around the harbor?”

His right foot was now unbearably cold, and he found it had frozen to the floor. “Her ship sank off the coast of Kirkwall, and you are awful.”

“It sank?” That gave him pause. Alistair had good memories on that ship. “That’s a shame. Well, for her. It’s actually… great news for Ferelden.”

Three more ales arrived at their table, and Bethany only froze one of them. They laughed, and they laughed more. Alistair delivered Bethany back to the Warden headquarters just as the sun was coming up. She was holding his arm, leaning heavily against it. She was drunk. But that was okay, Alistair supposed, because so was he.

“I’m going to be late on my first day,” she lamented as she flopped onto her bed. “I can’t start walking to Amaranthine like this. I’ll fall over in a ditch and be eaten by wolves.”

“Just tell them you were waylaid by darkspawn or bandits. That’s what we always did.”

“Mmph.”

He sat down on the cot. He should head back to the palace. “If I ransack the place again, will you be forced to come back to Denerim?”

Bethany smiled with her eyes still closed. “’S worth a try.”

Before he could think better of it, if he was even thinking at all at this point, he put a hand to her cheek, running his thumb over her smooth skin.

“Thank you, Bethany Hawke.”

“Mmph?”

“For tonight.”

“Mm. You’re welcome.”

He watched her a bit longer, until he was certain she was truly asleep. “Safe travels, Beth.” He got up, careful not to disturb her, and quietly made his way home.


	4. 9:33- Kingsway

“Warden Hawke? There’s a… delivery for you, serrah. Out in the yards.”

“Just leave it,” Bethany said without looking up from the herbs she was grinding to dust. Her sister hadn’t bothered sending anything to her in a while, but Hawke wasn’t easily deterred. It probably just took her this long to figure out where Bethany had been transferred to. Maybe she would finally write her back after all this time.

“I’m afraid it won’t… you should take a look.”

Bethany smiled at the boy to show she wasn’t annoyed with him, then put aside her pestle and wondered what in the world her ridiculous sister could have sent her now. There was a crowd of Wardens in the yard, laughing and staring at _whatever_ it was. Bethany shoved her way through.

“Yes?”

“Are you Warden Hawke?” a harried man asked. He wasn’t their regular man for making deliveries, and his clothes looked too nice for this to be his normal job. Bethany felt like she recognized those clothes—something about the colors.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“Then I am to deliver you this.” He reached into the back of his cart. To the gasps and coos of her fellow Wardens, he pulled out an enormous mabari puppy. The entire world stood still as he placed her into Bethany’s arms. She had little triangle ears, still floppy, and a dark little muzzle. She smelled like a puppy, and she licked Bethany’s face and Bethany thought her heart might explode. She had never seen nor held anything as important or perfect in her life. Only after a few moments did she realize the man who handed her the dog had kept talking and was now waiting for a response.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve been told her name is Isseya, though I daresay once she imprints on you, you can call her anything you want.”

“Izzy,” Bethany cooed, “My little perfect Izzy.”

“Until she imprints on you, I am to remain here and continue her training. And I might remind you that… Izzy… is to be a war dog.”

“Mhm,” Bethany hummed, already wondering if she could steal some empty sacks out of the larder and turn them into a dog bed. A little straw, a little sewing, or maybe she’d just let her stay on her bed instead. Izzy licked her face again, and Bethany thought she might cry from happiness.

“I was also asked to hand this to you directly.”

In order to take the letter from the man, she had to put her mabari down. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done her life. The other Wardens took the opportunity to fawn over little Izzy, who Bethany knew would never starve for love in this company. The letter was sealed and addressed in an unfamiliar hand, but there was only one person who would have sent her a mabari. She hid the letter away in a pocket, willing her cheeks to stay cool and pale and not betray her to her comrades.

Later that night, with Izzy nestled on her lap, exhausted from a day of being passed around from Warden to Warden, Bethany opened her letter from Alistair. 

~~

Dear Bethany,

Being king is the worst. There are days when an assembly of three have to argue over what color my overtunic should be. Today I was told that some are growing concerned that I eat too much cheese, and this could be a sign of Orlesian influence over me. Never mind the cheese at my table is all from Ferelden cows and sheep and goats, no. Just the idea of cheese is too Orlesian for members of my court. What is the exact correct amount of cheese, I wonder? No one can seem to tell me.

I never wanted it. When the idea was floated, I was opposed. Vehemently. Passionately. Vociferously. I mean, most of them had _met_ me. They knew how unsuited I was. How much cheese I ate, for that matter. But the decisions were made when I wasn’t even in the room, which really should have been another sign that I wasn’t cut out for it. But oh, no, I was _born_ for it. Much better. Hand the baby a scepter and see what he does.

When I was young, I thought they sent me to the chantry to get me out of way—keep me hidden and make sure I couldn’t threaten anyone’s power. Many of the templars take vows of chastity, and the brothers made it clear that was expected of me. Save the world from usurpers, I figured. Now I realize it was the perfect place to put a spare heir. I was educated in history, politics, religion, and given some of the best military training in Ferelden. What a fool I was, to think I was safe from the Theirin line.

Ah, but this letter has gotten away from me. What I meant to write was that there are gratifying moments of being king, times when I can really brighten someone’s day, like when I’m able to send a mabari to a true-born Ferelden. Take care of Isseya. I’ve sent along a recipe for curing the taint in mabari should she ever become ill—I recommend keeping the reagents in stock. Perhaps it could save a horse or two as well—we never tried.

Your Alistair

_PS_ should you desire to write back, address your letter to Carinus of Highever, and it should arrive directly to me, relatively unmolested.

_PPS_ please do not read that as a request for a response, though of course any word from you would be very welcome

~~

_Her_ Alistair. He had actually signed it that way. Of course it was a joke, their joke, but Maker, the idea made her legs squirm. Izzy protested the movement, a tiny whine of discontent, and Bethany pressed the letter to her chest and laughed.

Her Alistair gave her a mabari. Her very own mabari. Here Bethany was, ready to languish in her loneliness in Amaranthine, and she was preempted by a furry package of love. She had to write him back straight away.

~~

To My Dear Alistair,

Which word would be most welcome? I shall include a few, just to hedge my bets.

Sunshine. Puppy. Pirate Ship. Cheese (but only the Fereldan kind). Daffodil. Strawberry. Ale.

Now I’ve made myself hungry and must take a trip to the larder in the middle of the night. If you find crumbs on this letter, know the hunger of a Warden, like her duty, never sleeps.

Unfortunately, I’ve been told if the warehouse in Denerim were to be sacked again, it would not be my duty to restock. Apparently mages are needed for loftier things—quite literally. They’ve installed me in a tower. I’ve been given a little workshop that I share with a tranquil named Wilhelmus. I’d always been afraid of the tranquil, which I now realize was unkind of me. Wilhelmus is a little different from anyone I’ve met before, but nothing to be afraid of. In fact, he’s the most peaceful and helpful person I’ve ever known. They aren’t traits often found in Wardens, but I think he’s the first tranquil to be made one. They told him he could work with us without going through the Joining, but he said he wished to be a Warden. Maybe he thought it would change his condition.

No, that was unkind of me to say, too. For all that he’s tranquil, Wilhelmus chose to become a Warden. He had purpose and bravery and that’s why they let him join. In that way, he’s certainly a better Warden than I am. I wasn’t even conscious for my Joining.

Although, I don’t think I’m a terrible Warden. Before, I always thought I was quiet and shy. Now I think I was really just scared. I suppose I’m not as rambunctious or outgoing as some of the others, or even my friends in Kirkwall, but becoming a Warden was liberating. I can just be what I am at all times, and if anyone tries to stop me, I can light them on fire, or freeze their foot to the floor. I have a place in the world, a purpose, and I’m good at it. After everything the darkspawn took from me, it feels good to fight back. I don’t think it’s what Carver would have wanted for me, but it still feels right when I shove a shard of ice through an ogre’s eye.

I did not feel this way when I joined. I was so angry at my sister for a long time. We went to the Deep Roads to change our fate, and she got everything she wanted, and I lost my home and family. She chose my future for me. I know now that her choices were to let me die a horrible death underground or to give me to the Wardens, and in her position, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing, but back then… I was just angry. I refused to read any of the letters she sent me. I gave away all the care packages, too, which was _stupid_ because my sister is rich and she felt _very_ guilty and she sent me the best chocolate you could find in the Marches. Giving it all away won me some friends pretty quickly, though, so there’s always a silver lining. I shall have to hold on to my bitterness in Amaranthine at least for a little while in order to win over the Wardens here, as well.

Oh, Maker, I’m rambling now. You didn’t ask for an essay on my life. This was supposed to be a thank you note for Izzy, and I haven’t even mentioned her yet! Rest assured she is snoring on my feet as I write this in the middle of the night, and I will make her the most content pup in all of Thedas. I have never received such a gift, and I honestly don’t know what I could do to ever repay you. I suppose I have time to think on it.

~

She put the quill down and stroked her sleeping dog. “We are going to be best friends,” she said to Izzy for perhaps the hundredth time that day, “You are legally obligated to love me, by declaration of the king.”

Izzy yawned, and Bethany took that as tacit agreement. She laughed to herself and buried her face in her arms on the table. She could see Alistair when she closed her eyes. He reminded her of the summer fields in Lothering, stalks of wheat waving in the breeze that carried the chantry bells. Golden, warm, safe. She could still feel his hand in hers, her head resting on his large and strong arm, and she could almost imagine what his beard would feel like against her cheek, his lips just brushing against hers…

Well, she was allowed to fantasize now that she was probably never seeing him again, right? It was the same reason she could write him an entire autobiography in a letter—if he hated it, well what did it matter? There was no cause for their lives to intersect again, which meant Bethany was free to think and imagine and dream and fantasize about a good man who gave her a puppy. A man whose large yet gentle hands would feel incredible around her waist or on her cheek or sliding down her back. A man whose broad chest was probably very firm and maybe a little sensitive, if she spent the time to figure out where.

With her teeth.

Maker, what had that stupid, gorgeous man said to her in Denerim? _The reviews were glowing._

_How glowing?_ Part of her wondered in an annoyed, urgent, desperate sort of way. She could just imagine the look on Isabela’s face on receiving _that_ letter. And she would tell her sister, probably. She would tell Varric, definitely. No, she didn’t need Isabela to bolster her imagination. If the woman had said he was good in bed, well, she would know.

Bethany wanted to know.

She wanted to count his freckles and catalog his scars. She wanted him to smile and call her Beth and bite her ear. She wanted laughter, and his lips on her skin, his body between her thighs. She wanted to go back to Denerim _tomorrow_.

Instead she went to sleep with a puppy in her arms, which honestly wasn’t that bad of a trade-off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide how to break up these chapters so this one is a smidge shorter than the last, I think. 
> 
> Anyway he was obviously ALWAYS going to give her a puppy.


	5. 9:33-9:34 Drakonis

Bethany should not have been surprised on returning from the Deep Roads that a delivery of chocolate had been made. Lots of chocolate. Enough for a garrison. Enough to go straight past winning friends with generosity and land somewhere awkward. Still, chocolate was chocolate, and their return supper was livelier than usual.

She had also received more letters, waiting for her in her room. Letters from Alistair. _Her_ Alistair. Which was good because she had written letters herself, quill scratching at the paper in her lap under the magelights during her evenings underground. She wondered if she should ration them, savor one letter a day, something to look forward to after training and work. Or she could read them all immediately and then read them again and again. She decided on the former and implemented the latter, not getting to sleep until late in the night despite how bone-tired she was.

Most importantly, she was reunited with Izzy, who had been deemed too young to fight darkspawn. She had grown while Bethany was gone, one ear now standing straight while the other flopped, and it saddened her to know she had missed even a moment of the pup’s development. Back on the surface, they ate together, trained together, slept together.

By the thaw of winter, Izzy was enormous. Both ears stood straight up, and she was bigger than Bethany’s memory of Porthos. She was a puppy in a dog’s body though, still likely to tumble if she started to run too quickly, quick to cry for attention. And while she _knew_ the commands, about a third of the time she ignored them to do something she liked better. _A teenager_ , Bethany scoffed, watching as her war dog guiltily ate a stick.

“That’s not good for your belly, Izzy,” Bethany reprimanded, “Spit it out right now.”

Izzy started to lower her head, considering dropping the stick, but instead she jumped into the air and ran off with it. Bethany could almost hear her shouting, “No! I shan’t!”

“Oh, for Maker’s sake,” she cursed. “Fine! Have an upset stomach!”

“Hawke!” Her name rang out across the yard. She left the dog to her own devices with a huff. There was no helping some people.

Her commander was waiting for her by the stables. A gruff man who almost never smiled, Faro seemed a strange choice to be given control over a Fereldan arling. For one thing, he was a surface dwarf who grew up in the Marches. He was singularly talented at killing darkspawn, though, for which Bethany appreciated him greatly.

“Commander?”

The man crossed his arms and looked her up and down before shaking his head. “I don’t know how to put this so I’m just going to say it. There’s been… talk… about your relationship with the King. Central command doesn’t like it.”

Bethany blinked. As much as she might like to have a relationship worth talking about, she hadn’t even seen the man in six months.

“The matter of it is,” Faro continued, “Weisshaupt is not comfortable with your closeness. If a Fereldan Warden were to be seen canoodling—”

“That’s not, we haven’t—” Bethany took a breath. Becoming defensive would only make her seem guilty, which was ridiculous, because Faro _knew_ exactly how she spent her time. “He’s an old friend, and I don’t know how I could possibly be seen canoodling if—”

“By the stones, Bethany, the man sent you a puppy and enough chocolate to feed a battalion. Shit, that reminds me. Another letter for you.” He pulled a letter out of his coat, wax seal intact, and raised an eyebrow as she took it from him. “It’s clear to my dead grandmother in Orzammar by now that he’s courting.”

Bethany pursed her lips. She knew how it looked. She also knew that if she had the wealth of a nation she would probably start sending her friends whatever they desired. And for all his letters, Alistair had never once indicated coming to see her. The two of them were just… well they weren’t _just_ anything but they were… She was his…

Faro cut into her thoughts. “Stupid is a bad look on a Warden.”

She bit her tongue.

“Look, our relationship with Orlais is already shaky. If they thought the King of Ferelden was making some sort of… alliance with the Grey Wardens, they could banish us from the entire country.”

Bethany scoffed. “Wasn’t that attitude what made the Blight here as bad as it was? Wouldn’t things have ended at Ostagar if Logaine hadn’t decided all Wardens were Orlesian spies?”

“Huh. So you understand the heart of the problem exactly.” Bethany’s mouth dropped open. “The King already gave us an Arling. We can’t have them thinking he then installed his paramour in it and uses us as a personal army.”

Now she was offended. “He wouldn’t—we _aren’t_ —”

“Yeah, _he_ wouldn’t maybe, but that’s exactly what an Orlesian ruler would do.” Bethany tried to protest again, but Faro cut her off with a gesture. “Look, the order was sent from Weisshaupt. I can’t ignore it. I just though you’d want to know the reason you’re being transferred back to the Marches. There’s a boat headed out from Amaranthine tomorrow. You need to be on it.”

Bethany felt the world falling out from under her. Again. “Tomorrow?”

“Like I said, this order came from Weisshaupt, which means the entire conversation from complaint to decision to me sending you off has taken months. You’re going back with Stroud. Ship sails to Ostwick.”

Faro handed her another letter—opened this time—with her itinerary and instructions on what to do on arriving in Ostwick. She held it limply, her eyes wandering across the yard to where her dog was digging a hole. Beyond her disappointment in having to leave Ferelden, in losing the friends she’d made here and her little workshop and being uprooted _again_ , part of her mind was deeply disappointed the ship wasn’t leaving from Denerim. And she knew that that thought was exactly why they were sending her away.

“I’m already having the girls put on a farewell feast for you.” Faro gave her a heavy pat on the arm. “You might as well be hungover for the journey. I always throw up on boats regardless. And Beth… I am sorry. You’re a good Warden.”

Bethany nodded absently. She didn’t know how she was going to break it to Izzy that they were leaving her home forever. She didn’t want to think of how crossing paths with Alistair would now be next to impossible. That men she didn’t even know had decided that on purpose. She couldn’t bring herself to open his letter that night, instead waiting until she was sitting in her tiny cabin, staving off her seasickness with regular bouts of soothing magic, and feeling completely sorry for herself. 

~

Dear Bethany,

It was the third anniversary of the defeat of the fifth blight last week. Every year I’m expected to give a speech, if only to remind everyone that I was there. Not that I was terribly useful in the end. The tales of a hero king were purposefully overblown to make me seem more legitimate. I suppose if I could tell anyone, I could tell you the truth. I think I would like you to know what really happened.

It all comes back to Lyna. The stories about her were _not_ overblown. She truly was larger than life. She was also just a woman who once tried the mead in Orzammar and woke up in the proving grounds in nothing but her smalls. She snored at night and her feet were always, always cold. She taught me how to cook after Leliana gave up, but she refused to eat mushrooms, even in the Deep Roads. She didn’t know how to whistle. Zevran spent an entire afternoon trying to teach her until Morrigan threatened to turn them both into spiders. She liked ghost stories and she was unfailingly polite even when she was a moment away from murdering somebody.

History will never remember any of these things, and somedays I wish I didn’t either.

Does that make me a monster?

She didn’t tell me why Morrigan didn’t fight with us in the last battle. I was willing to accept it was cowardice or betrayal, but Leliana knew the truth. Morrigan made Lyna an offer, something that might have saved us both, and she refused it on my behalf. Didn’t even tell me. Didn’t give me the choice. She might have lived had I… But it doesn’t matter. She made her choice, and she made mine for me. She didn’t even… I wasn’t on the tower when the archdemon fell because she told me to stay behind.

I was angry at her for a long time. She made me king, when I never wanted to be, and then she died. Protected me, protected my blood for all that it’s worth, and she went to fight the archdemon alone. She told me it was to hedge our bets, because if she failed, I was the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. But I knew she wouldn’t fail, and if she did, I should have been with her, and I let her go anyway. A better man would have fought her or ignored her orders or found a way… A better man would have saved her.

She would have made a better king than I. The rest of Ferelden might have rioted with a Dalish elf on the throne, but when the dust settled, they would have been better off, believe me.

It was hard to stop being angry. I think it was just a way of keeping her alive. You can have arguments all day in your head with someone if you’re angry. Might even win a couple for once.

I’ll never know the real reason why she made her choice. Why it had to be her and not me. It’s something I just have to live with and forgive both of us for. I am trying.

So now you know the truth, and I pray you do not hate me for it.

Alistair

~~

Bethany put the letter down and wiped her face. She knew exactly why Lyna made the choice she did. The fate of the country and the monarchy and bloodlines were all a convenient bit of logic tacked on to what was not a logical decision at all. Lyna loved him and refused to live in a world without him, and refused to let him live with the knowledge that he had the power to make it otherwise. She made the decision alone, bore the responsibility alone. She took his power away to give him anger instead of guilt, and it was selfish on her part, but Bethany would have made the same choice in a heartbeat.

She had never met the woman, but deep in her heart, Bethany loved her. She was not a competitor, a ghost, an impediment to happiness, but a comrade. A woman who safe-guarded the best man Bethany had ever met. Someone who saw what Bethany saw and loved what Bethany loved.

Bethany had once wondered if, push came to shove, she would have been brave enough to stand on that tower and face an archdemon, knowing she alone could kill it. Now she understood, and she knew that she could.

And despite that, she was sailing away from him. Maker, she had gone and fallen in love with a templar and a Warden and king, each as unreachable as the last. The child in her wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _right_. This was not what all of her fairytales had promised her.

She pressed her head into Izzy’s fur, and if the dog noticed the wetness of her face, she did not complain. She sat quietly and allowed Bethany to throw her arms around her and cry. And when Bethany quieted a little, Isseya nudged them toward their bed and sat guard over her while she slept.

By the time they reached Ostwick, Bethany was done crying. She had spent enough of her life feeling sorry for herself. She pulled herself together and told herself that if there was anyone to blame for the trials of her life, it was the darkspawn. So that was where she needed to focus. Everything else, men and countries and love, those were all just secondary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter because this one was really the second half of the last one but oh well. Sorry, Beth.


	6. 9:34 Solace

When the letters stopped, Alistair knew there were many logical explanations. The most reasonable one was that Bethany had been sent out on a Deep Roads excursion that could take months. There had been pauses in their correspondence before for that very reason, and those pauses had been followed by treasured days in which he received multiple letters at a time. Her last letter before the silence arrived came from Ostwick, so clearly she was on the move.

She also could have tired of his letters. While disappointing, Alistair supposed it was natural. They had not seen each other in some time. She had written of the other Wardens, and in low moments he had wondered if one of them was more special than others, trying to read between the lines of simple description. By the time he was willing to admit the depth of his feeling to himself, he was afraid too long had passed. Wardens were free with their hearts and their beds, and he had done nothing to indicate that she was free to have his.

Or maybe the darkspawn took her.

This was the unbearable thought that came to him every night when he tried to sleep. During the day, he was ruled by calm reason, a pragmatism that told him their friendship was never meant to last. He worked, he ate, he trained his body, he wandered the city and he accepted his lot. But the moment he blew out his lamp to sleep, he felt a keen awareness of the monsters far below. It was their fate, after all, one way or another. But he could not bear to think of her down there, alone, injured, dead, or worse. When he truly could not sleep, he lit his lamp again, and took from the bedside table his favorite letter of hers, now creased a hundred times over.

~

Dear Alistair,

I think the most surprising thing is that I don’t hate the Deep Roads. Yes, I was trapped there by a madman and then basically died and lost everything, but the Deep Roads are just a location. It’s not the fault of the roads the darkspawn live there.

The lost cities of the dwarves are so impressive, it makes me a little sad the rest of the world will never see them. It must have been incredible when they were filled with people. I think of them every time I touch the stones that were laid there so carefully and skillfully, they withstood the end of everything. I’ve been trying to take up drawing so that I might send some pictures to my sister, but there are so few hours in the day. You can see my progress in the sketch of Izzy I included. In case you are wondering, she still looks like a mabari and not at all like a horse, so you can see the trouble I’m having.

There are times I find myself sitting in the purest darkness that ever existed, and instead of fear, I feel a strange sort of peace. When we find running water, it feels like a blessing from Andraste herself. I send magelights into the rivers, and their reflections scatter along the walls and the ceilings and my magic feels like a blessing, too. I’ve seen crystal structures I could never imagine, throwing light into constellations like the night sky. Glow worms, too, and other phenomenon we don’t have words for and can’t explain. When we are certain there are no darkspawn about, Velanna and Nathan will sing, and the echoes are eerie and somber and other-worldly.

It is beautiful.

But then, maybe I just enjoy the lyrium suffusing the air everywhere. You know, typical mage.

Yours in sunshine and in darkness,

Bethany

~~

When it had arrived, he had felt a sort of rearranging of his insides, a space made where none had been before. He read it again, and thought simply, _Oh._ The longing he had been feeling, the smile her words put on his face, the way his thoughts drifted to her throughout the day like a stream running downhill… He ran his hand over his face and through his hair. He had been in over his head since she came to Denerim.

Alistair had stared for a long while at the picture of, well she said it was Izzy, so he supposed it must be, before setting it in the drawer in his nightstand. After that, every letter she sent had a drawing of something in her life. Sometimes in charcoal, others in ink. There was steady improvement in the work. Once she sent him a series of sketches of all the herbs they kept in the keep. Then she started on the portraits. First, all the other Wardens, then the servants, the seneschal, the stable boy. Izzy again, this time definitely a dog. This one he had framed and kept in his office.

Of course, what he really wanted was a self-portrait. His memory was… well it was _good_ , but it could be _better_. He didn’t want to rely on his memory at all. For six long months he had tried to come up with a reason to go to Amaranthine, and for six months, Eamon had outmaneuvered him. And then he received his last letter from Bethany, a short missive to say she was back in the Marches, about to go underground, that she read his letter and she didn’t hate him. She could never hate him, she’d said.

He heard about Bethany’s sister before he heard from Bethany herself. The older Hawke was named Champion of Kirkwall for driving out the Qunari horde. But as for Bethany, there was nothing. No news. He read her letter again and again, and hoped, if she was lost in the roads, that she hadn’t been alone, and she hadn’t been afraid. For the first time in years, he brought his hands together, and he prayed.

He had not given up on seeing her again. In fact, it was all he could think about at times. For the four-year anniversary of the end of the Blight, he was holding a tourney outside of Denerim to honor the Grey Wardens and the Heroes of the Fifth Blight. If it went well for the country, the tourney would bring in trade, foreign money, and alliances with noble houses that came to compete. Leliana had promised a Chantry presence, if not the Divine herself. It was an opportunity to show the resilience of Ferelden, perhaps entice her displaced people to come home, and show a strong face to the rest of the world. If all went well.

If it went well for Alistair, Bethany would be there.

And even if she weren’t, he would be happy to see Wynne again. Wynne was bringing Shale, and Alistair had already written back to ask if Shale would enjoy performing feats of strength to dazzle the common folk or if it would rather sit to the side and look intimidating. Zevran had left at the end of summer, his own affairs growing tense and dangerous, but he promised to come back for this. Alistair did not care to admit it, but he missed his company far too much. Without him, when he was not writing unanswered letters to Bethany, he found himself talking to the dog. In his mind, Angus responded with Antivan accent and more sass than the average mabari. He assumed Oghren would attend with the rest of the Fereldan Wardens, who had already pledged to participate. Only Sten was unavailable, though this did not surprise him. Still, it would be a good reunion, and for once he could leave it to all the others to make speeches.

For all that, it would be an incredible lie to say he hadn’t concocted the entire idea with the hope that it would bring Bethany to Denerim. And he told that lie to Zevran in a letter, who had penned an entire page back of simply “Ja ja” repeated.

Maker, but he wanted to see her. With each letter the ache in his chest grew. He wanted Bethany to fall asleep against his shoulder, again, and this time never have to say goodbye. He wanted to battle for the covers between her and their dogs in his massive bed and wake up in a tangle of limbs and sheets and fur. He wanted to lie outside in the sunshine, shirking all responsibilities, and have her find him every time, scold him, and lie down with him. He wanted to wake up and find her still there, cheeks flushed from the sun, eyes soft with sleep. He wanted her safe, above ground, with him.

He wanted her to write him a letter.

Maybe he should have given her _two_ dogs, he thought bitterly. One to guard her front, and one to guard her back. Down at the kennels, examining the newly weaned pups, he kept thinking of how she’d said, “it would work on me,” that half smile as she looked down at her lap and then back up at him, her dark hair framing her face. _Give her a dog and she’ll do anything you like._ He picked Isseya because she was the first to jump in his lap. Friendly, brave, the perfect companion for a lonely Fereldan Warden in desperate need of a dog. He had told her in no uncertain terms that he expected a lifetime commitment of love and protection, and if she agreed she should lick his face. The contract was sealed.

Of course, that decision, as all his decisions, set a cascade of other bullshit in motion. He had given many people dogs as king, and he would give out many more. But with Bethany, it had been different. The idiot king was courting, so said the people.

 _Why have you never sent me a dog?_ Leliana teased in a letter, which meant they knew of it all the way in Orlais. A warning as much as a joke. Bethany was known. 

The rumors were tiresome, as were the spies, and at times he could block out all the eyes watching him, reporting on him. According to Zevran, who could be relied on to tell him the truth, the consensus was that although Alistair was an idiot, he was a likable idiot, and his advisers would do right by the country. Thus, it was important his advisers be seen often and in a good light. As for Alistair, being perceived as a fool had often worked out in his favor.

He did not like it when the perceptions were correct.

Yes, the idiot king was courting a Grey Warden, and it was doomed from the start by the folly of birth and blood and magic. And if Alistair wasn’t mistaken, court had been filled with dark-haired women of late, as if that was all it took, as if Bethany were nothing more than a doll who could be replaced. It rankled. 

As the silence from Bethany wore on, he found the good cheer of others to grate on his nerves. He spent more time alone. Well, alone except for Angus. He was never without Angus. When the taverns were no longer able to improve his mood, he walked the streets of his city. Over the months, he only got mugged twice, and both times his mabari retrieved his stolen goods. So that was a good sign for the general safety and welfare of the people. There were some cities, he’d heard, where people were afraid to go out at all after the sun went down.

It was Angus who alerted him to the letter sitting on his desk after one such excursion. He tore open the seal so quickly he feared he would rip the letter itself in half. 

~~

Dear Alistair,

I think I have sat in front of this blank page every night for weeks on end.

My mother was murdered. I tried to find a way to soften that sentence, make it come as less of a shock, make it less ugly, but there isn’t a better way to say it. It is ugly. Leandra Amell was murdered in Kirkwall while I was in the Deep Roads.

Would it be easier if it had been a natural death? Would I feel better knowing she slowly declined like my father did? I don’t know if she suffered like he did. Maybe it was more like Carver—over before he knew it. Maybe there wasn’t time for her to be afraid.

I know she was murdered. I know my sister killed the murderer.

What else is there to say?

I have been on a mission. We spent so long underground, that when I emerged from the Deep Roads, I hardly knew what season it was. My eyes hurt for days. I saw my sister for a minute in Kirkwall. Izzy met Porthos, which somehow felt significant. Then I left her in a city on fire to go be a Grey Warden.

I’m still a Grey Warden, and you are still in Ferelden.

My heart is broken.

~~

She was alive.

Maker help him, she was in pain, and the world had not been kind to her, but she was alive. Alistair collapsed into a chair, feeling both that a great weight had come off him and that his legs could hold him no longer. Angus dropped his head on his lap, and Alistair offered him the letter.

“Can you smell that? She’s alive. She’s alright.”

Angus wagged his nub of a tail, and when Alistair next opened his eyes, he found it was morning, and he was still clutching her letter. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. Maker, his back had been through enough. It didn’t deserve this. He was going to need it if he was going to compete in the tourney and not make a fool of himself in front of…

He looked at the letter in his hand and smiled.

Hearts could be mended. Bethany had had a hand in teaching him that. And as for his part in her heartbreak, perhaps he could do something about that. The tourney was months away, with no promise the Marcher Wardens were coming. Eamon be damned, Alistair was going to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Ellster!!


	7. 9:34 August

Alistair’s plan was to travel the coastal Marcher cities, west to east. This meant Kirkwall was first on his list, though without a proper Viscount, the city’s leadership was in disarray. Alistair would be damned before making an alliance with Meredith Stannard, and apparently she felt the same. The verbose and often very personal dressing down was probably good for him. Reminded him of his roots, though the accent was different. Angus was far less impressed, and Alistair held a hand to his collar for the entire meeting to avoid starting an international incident.

Never mind. He had a second reason to stop in Kirkwall, and that was to recruit the Champion to participate in the tourney. A Fereldan refugee who had singlehandedly fought off the entire Qunari horde? He could think of a few events to showcase her talents, even if that story was clearly exaggerated.

It wasn’t hard to find her. In fact, if he were a suspicious man, he might have suspected she had been listening in on all the names Meredith had chosen to call him. So many names—did the woman own a thesaurus? But, as Meredith informed him, and he was inclined to agree, Alistair was just a guileless simpleton. Therefore, when he spotted the woman in the overly complicated armor with nearly white hair, his only assumption was that he was lucky to find her with so little effort on his part, and not that she was standing in such a way as to clearly hear their conversation through an open window.

Maker, she had Beth’s eyes.

That was enough to stun him into a stupid silence. Dark, so dark, and an uncommon shape for Ferelden. He didn’t have the words to describe faces, he was no poet—but they reminded him of windy days and leaves crunching under his feet and he couldn’t say why. Bethany’s eyes in a stranger’s face and he felt such a tugging in his belly, a longing that seemingly wanted to drag him straight across the Marches without waiting for his feet.

He released his grasp on Angus and jumped upon seeing another mabari here—one he had met before. The two circled each other, began the ritual greetings of their kind, as Hawke put her hand on her hip and said, “King Alistair, I presume?”

Her eyebrows were raised in judgement, and it was impossible for Alistair to know how long he had been staring and thinking. Probably too long. “Right. Yes,” he replied. Her dog now approached him, and he held out a hand. “You know I met your dog some years ago. Porthos, as I recall?”

“Well-remembered,” she said as he realized he had offered his hand to her dog before properly greeting her. Her lips quirked up. “And I could hardly consider myself Fereldan if I didn’t recognize a Hero of the Fifth Blight _and_ his master.” She bobbed her head at Angus and pulled a treat out of her pocket. That act almost had him relaxing, until she unleashed the full weight of her smile on him. Pretty, he was sure, in the way that icicles were pretty, right before they broke off a parapet and sliced a person in two. “I heard you gave my sister a puppy.”

Alistair, who had fought darkspawn and bested Loghain in single combat at the Landsmeet, who led armies and spent months underground in the Deep Roads, Alistair, Hero of the Fifth Blight and not just master to one— _that Alistair—_ found himself shrinking under this woman’s stare. How could Bethany’s eyes look so formidable while their owner continued to smile?

He nodded.

“Thank you,” she finally said, “I sort of wish I’d done it myself. She was in need of a dog, wasn’t she?”

"I was just regretting that I hadn't given her two-- one to guard her front, and the other her back." 

"You _should_ regret that," she chided sharply, "That was quite the mistake on your part." 

“She told me I should give you one,” he offered for no apparent reason.

“Well that was a bright idea.” Her gaze traveled over him again, and Alistair had never felt so small. Maker’s breath, had she defeated the Qunari through sheer confidence? She hadn’t even drawn a blade and he had all but surrendered. “And yet I see no wriggling bundle of joy in your arms. Now I shall be disappointed for the rest of the day. I met with King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden, and all I got was…?”

“A fancy bit of parchment, I’m afraid.” He apologetically passed her the scroll he’d brought along. “We are having a tourney in Denerim, and I would like to invite you as a respected guest.”

“A guest?” she asked. “Or do you mean a participant? A performer? Shall I dance for the people while hurling knives at a Qunari effigy? Or did you hire some poor sod to play the part? I simply need to know which outfit to pack.”

He could feel it now, how his very existence was offending her. Not an uncommon effect of his presence, but of all things, he felt certain it was his perceived _nobility_ that irked her. “As much as I would like to see your last suggestion—in effigy, not man—it’s up to you. You could wear a crown and bestow prizes on the winner for all I care. Which is not to say,” he corrected himself, _stupid, Alistair, stupid,_ “That I do not care whether you attend. You would honor us with your presence, however you wish to bestow it.”

He met her eyes, hoping he was emanating sincerity and not anxiety, and she softened. “I apologize,” she said, “I still find my title a little ill-fitting, and it seems as though everyone else is eager enough to use it. But I suppose of all people, _you_ might know something of that.”

He could see a bit of Bethany in her, now that she’d put her fangs away. Maker’s breath, he should have listened to her and gone with the puppy. If he’d hoped to win over Bethany’s only remaining family, he could chalk this up as a monumental failure.

“I wasn’t the only Fereldan who ended up here,” she said lightly, “I wasn’t even the only one who ended up facing the horde.”

“I know. It is my hope to encourage people such as you to return home now that the lands are healing. Though Lothering remains lost, I’m afraid,” he added softly.

It was a mistake. The Champion went brittle and bright. “She told me you met her there. That you were a _templar_.”

“A failed templar, I think you’ll find. Apostate right under my nose, and what did I do? I gave her a puppy.”

Shockingly, this attempt at charm fell flat. “Do you love her?” she demanded, all pretense at friendliness dropped.

“Yes.” The answer came out of him before he could think better of it. Maker, she was fierce.

“Are you going to tell her that?”

“The next time I see her.”

Her expression softened. For a moment the Champion looked downright _sad_. Now there was a switch. “I have some things I hoped you could give her.” She handed him a small parcel, red cloth tied with a ribbon. He took them and turned to leave, but his hopes of getting out of Kirkwall unscathed were dashed when she called, “Alistair?” Gone was her false smile, replaced by an intensity in her expression he didn’t understand. “My sister is my last living relative. My only family. I was supposed to protect her, but I failed. Still she is… She is _kind_ and she is _good_ and neither the taint nor magic can take that from her, whatever she thinks. She is worthy. Search your heart, your majesty--” the honorific dripped off her tongue with disdain-- “And if you find that she is not noble enough or fertile enough for you, if perhaps she is too magical, then better you leave her alone. If I find out you gave her reason to hope and then you _disappoint_ her I’ll…” she sighed, shook her head, gave her dog a quick pat. Then once again she smiled. “I’ll do you like I did the Arishok.”

~~

Alistair was coming to visit her. Bethany held that knowledge, a small fire inside of her chest, when her body had been cold for months. She let it slowly warm her, the first temperate breezes of happiness after a winter of tragedy. His letter had been short, but to the point.

_My dearest, Bethany,_

_I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter and how sorry I was to read it. Nothing I can say will undo the hardships you have endured or to convey how sorry I am to hear of your mother, but I hope my next words may be of some comfort to you. I am coming to the Free Marches, and it is my utmost wish to see you. If I have misunderstood you and you do not wish to see me, send any word and I won’t come. But if not, I will see you in a month._

_Your Alistair_

She told only Izzy, who was sworn to secrecy. If the Wardens had sent her all the way to the Free Marches to keep her away from him, where would they send her next? Nevarra? Weisshaupt? Would he travel all the way out there next time? Maker, was she already thinking of next time? Five years had passed between their first two meetings. One more year had passed since she saw him in Denerim. How long would she have to wait before seeing him again? She had to make this time count.

She could hardly remember what she’d written to him. After staring at that page for so long, she’d simply written, barely waited for the ink to dry before sending it off. What had she said that made him decide to see her after so long?

Had she confessed her love for him? She should have remembered _that_. Probably. Oh, Maker, what had she _said?_

One word would stop him coming, so Bethany sent back only pictures. Scenes from the keep, Izzy again, her hands, which seemed impossible to draw, birds in flight overhead, her room. Every day she sent another picture, sometimes two or three, just a sketch or something better. She’d recently acquired watercolors and had paintings drying on every surface. She’d send enough pictures to make up for her long silence.

She kept her knowledge about Alistair a secret, the little slip of paper folded in her pocket to remind her. This was real. There was something to look forward to.

Of course, Warden life always came first. And a week before Alistair was to arrive, Stroud shipped them down below the earth. He didn’t give her time to write Alistair, to warn him she would be gone, and though Stroud said nothing, she had the feeling it was on purpose.

Things only got worse from there.

A nest of spiders had taken over their usual entrance, which was a nasty surprise. Nothing they couldn’t handle once they got into the swing of things, but it seemed almost as if the darkspawn were waiting for them to finish before pouring into the cavern.

On the first day of fighting, they won a resounding victory and pushed forward.

On the second day, they were pushed back and frantically shored up their barricades just to get a bit of rest from the unending onslaught. Izzy took a wound to her hind paw, and Bethany poured her healing magic into the dog.

On the third day, an ogre snapped Bethany’s staff in half. She didn’t need the staff to snap his spine in half with a bit of force magic, but now she lacked a weapon to use while replenishing her mana. She picked up a bow and focused on not hitting her comrades. If an arrow happened to strike an enemy, well that was all the better. Standing in the back, she was the first to discover the darkspawn had come around from behind. They were trapped.

On the fourth day, Stroud took an axe to the knee and declared a rationing on all healing potions. Bethany was running low on lyrium, too, but she healed him up well enough that he was back in front after only half an hour. Fred took a nasty blow that kept him out of the fighting, and Elyra suffered a panic that had her running toward the enemy unarmed until Wally tackled her down.

On the fifth day, Bethany caved in the original path they had planned on taking on this excursion, deciding for all of them it was lost. Better to focus on getting the void out of here, back to the surface, and she was surprised when Stroud didn’t complain. He simply nodded and said it couldn’t be helped.

On the sixth day, she was running out of arrows when the emissaries arrived.

“Wally,” she called, “Where are those grenades?”

Bethany thanked the Maker that they hadn’t used them all up yet. Packed with magebane, deathroot, and whatever explosives Wally could get his hands on, they were the only incendiary they had left. Dangerous to throw them toward their only escape route, but she could see the emissaries already beginning to cast and feel the slimy aura of their foul magic.

“Here.” He held one out to her, and she lit it with a tiny spark of flame. Before he could heft it, however, an arrow zipped straight through, blowing it up in his hand. The world seemed to slow as she was blasted back. Her feet went out from under her, her head was thrown back, and the magebane suffused the air, poisoning Bethany's surprised gasp. For a moment, suspended in the air, she could see the battle before her, Stroud and Sasha lofting their shields up as the emissaries' magic glowed hot, ready to burn. Pyrn and Dory were both looking at her, grenades in their hand, horror on their faces, and Bethany slammed to the floor as more projectiles whizzed overhead.

Wally was screaming, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She coughed, and it felt like the poison only went deeper. The air was poison, and she couldn’t stop coughing, her body convulsing on itself. She couldn’t cast. She coughed, her knees to her chest and her magic dead in her hands. Shouting, everywhere, but she couldn’t understand through the fit of her coughing. Her lungs were full—her lungs were—the room got darker and her lungs were—she couldn’t—

Bethany faded into the darkness, fighting the entire way, the sounds of the battle strangled into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?
> 
> Also, because I am forever thinking about Hawke, I wrote her reaction to her to meeting with Alistair. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910937


	8. 9:34 August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for descriptions of intense breathing troubles.

Alistair rode to the old keep alone. Perhaps not the wisest habit for someone with no heirs, but he was eager and unwilling to be weighed down by the trappings of his station. And, if he was honest, he was nervous. The last time he had seen Bethany, they were barely more than strangers, a childhood crush he had thought lost to time. After months of letters, he had told her things he had never told anyone else. Personal things. Things, perhaps, he should have kept to himself, all told.

Maker, he did not need anyone else witnessing their reunion. It was less a question of _if_ he would shove his foot in his mouth, and more of whether or not he’d be able to retrieve his boot when it was over.

Though of course he had Angus with him. He was never without Angus.

As he approached the gate, it occurred to him that after all that time spent traveling, he hadn’t made a plan of what he wanted to say to her. So focused on simply getting to this point, he had neglected to write himself a script. Did he think she was just going to fall into his arms? That his natural charm and wit would win her over after a lifetime of having the opposite effect on people? Easier to woo someone over pen and paper where idiotic thoughts could be scratched out, but now he had to work with, well, _him._ And he had precious few minutes to figure it out now. A mustachioed man was already waving him over. Alistair dismounted, all of his excitement turning into dread and preemptive regret.

Mustache spoke. “I’m Stroud, commander of this fortress. I already know who you are.” Stroud was wearing his armor, Warden blues, though it looked a bit worse for wear. Scuffed, bit dirty. One leg was torn, and if Alistair wasn’t mistaken, it was covered in blood. Perhaps the Marcher Wardens were down on their luck. Stroud held a pipe in his hand, and his attention was on packing it. Alistair began to feel that something more than himself was a little off.

“And after I went through all that trouble of not telling anyone I was coming,” he joked. Stroud didn’t smile. Just kept fiddling with the pipe. Definitely… off.

“Forgive me,” he finally said, as Alistair helped him to light it. “A nasty habit, but after a day like today…”

Orlesians. Never say anything straight when they can make someone draw it out from them. “A day like today?” Alistair asked, the feeling of general offness starting to knit itself into general worry, “What do you mean?”

Stroud took a deep pull and exhaled slowly, eyes closed. “You’ve been in the roads. Imagine everything that could go wrong going wrong. We weren’t supposed to be surfaceside for another month.”

Good news and bad. They were here, at least for his arrival, but Bethany knew he was coming. Why hadn’t she warned him? “I wasn’t told.”

Stroud nodded. “I was advised to send you away.”

Alistair frowned at the severe man. Was it really his intention to drag out this conversation as long as possible? Could he not plainly state what was happening here? “Why?”

“The story I was given? Or what I expect the truth to be?” He blew out another billow of smoke, and Alistair waved it away from his face. “Both can wait.” Stroud leaned to the side and spit. “Bethany was injured. You’ll want to see her.”

“You should have led with that,” Alistair snarled, his worry intensifying to blind fear. He passed the reins of his horse to the commander, who took them uncomplainingly, and ran to the keep, Angus leading the way.

He heard her before he saw her. A horrible wheezing came from across the room, from the prone body limp on a bed. The sound was haunting, as if she were filled with spirits clamoring to escape, as if she were drowning on dry land. Alistair was surprised to find himself woozy, the room suddenly falling out of focus as all he could hear were her labored breaths. He steadied himself in the doorframe. Then another sound, to his left, a whine, followed by a hot snout bumping his palm. He looked down to see not Angus, but Izzy, all grown up and filthy with darkspawn guts.

“Good girl,” he told her. She had gotten Bethany back above ground, to safety, her effort now coating her fur. “Good girl.”

“Close that door,” came a voice from the fireplace, a woman hunched over that he hadn’t even noticed. He complied. “Now help me prop her up.”

He was ashamed how the sound affected him, the rhythmic strainings of her lungs. Shallow, fast, failing. He made a fist, steeled his wobbly legs, and crossed the room to her.

 _Beth._ Her face was covered in soot, eyes closed, mouth open as she struggled to breathe. Blood crusted at each corner of her mouth, leaving trails down her chin. They lifted her into a sort of sitting position.

“Make yourself useful and throw this in the pot,” the woman said, shoving a handful of herbs into his hand.

He felt paralyzed, staring at her. “Are you the only healer?”

“ _She_ is our healer.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m the cook. Marta.”

He watched in horror, helpless to do anything with his useless, thick hands. Marta untied the front of Bethany’s shirt, the fabric falling loose around her collarbones. Alistair averted his eyes and made himself busy throwing the herbs into the boiling water as she had asked, while she slathered something over Bethany’s chest. “To open the airways,” she said. It smelled caustic, but slowly, the eerie chorus in her breaths quieted. Instead of an orchestra one hundred strong, her breathing was more of a small band one might find in a tavern. Alistair dragged his hand over his face. A tavern band? What was he even thinking right now?

“Will she live?” he asked and immediately regretted the words. They hung in the air with the steam from the water and the constant discord of Bethany’s breathing. Nobody had an answer but the Maker, and he wasn’t talking.

“She had been teaching me…” Marta hung her head. “My son, he has a sickness in the lungs. He struggles to breathe. Warden Hawke has been teaching me different remedies. But this isn’t the same as my boy. I don’t know. If she could just breathe a healing potion…”

His eyes fell back on Bethany’s face, almost unrecognizable under the dirt and blood and pain. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. _Beth_. Could he have really come all this way, only to watch her die? He was more certain than ever that she was something precious in this world, a spark of flame too special to be snuffed out. She had made him feel—she had made him _feel_. Himself again. Alive again. Able to look forward to a future—a future that had her in it. He hadn’t known that he could hope again, or expect or anticipate anything _good_ , but Bethany had given him that and it was not for the fucking darkspawn to take her away. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, a second chance to love someone and be loved in return, but here he was, and Andraste help him he was not losing her without a fight. Not again.

“Maybe she can,” he said. “If we boil it with the rest, get her to breathe the steam.”

“Will it work?”

“It’s a mite bit better than sitting here and waiting for her to die. Help me move the bed.”

They moved her as close to the fire as they could and added a health potion to the already boiling mix. The steam billowed, overheating the room and collecting on the glass panes of the windows, but neither wanted to open them and risk any of the healing escaping. Alistair already regretted each of his own breaths if any of it was wasted on him. He grabbed a sheaf of paper and began fanning the steam toward Bethany, once again whispering old prayers to himself, wondering if this all wasn’t futile nonsense. Would they even know if it helped? Were quieter lungs simply lungs that were giving up?

“Who are you, anyway?” Marta asked, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Alistair Theirin.”

She scoffed. “And I’m the Queen of Antiva.”

He glanced at her, strangely thankful for her skepticism. “You’re a bit taller than she is,” he muttered, adding, “And decades younger.”

Marta paled at that. “I should check on the boy next door,” she said, “Without her, he’s probably going to lose his hand.”

Alistair closed his eyes and sighed, resting his arms for a moment. The life of the Wardens was cruel and hard and dangerous. He knew this. A lost hand was the sort of sacrifice that was expected. So why did he feel guilty over an injury that had nothing to do with him?

“This is her room,” Marta informed him, one foot over the threshold, “If you think of anything else that might help, her stocks are very organized.”

Alone now, he removed the chair from her writing desk and placed it by the head of the bed. Bethany was sweating, but then in the steam and heat, so was he. He had removed his outer coats and was down to just his shirt, which was sticking to him, sleeves rolled up as far as they would go, and he apologized to her sleeping form for the impropriety. “Wheeze if you don’t mind,” he tried weakly. Her sweat was cracking the black soot on her face, rivulets running down and revealing paled skin underneath. He found a clean cloth, wetted it, and began to wash it all off.

Alistair was never much for silence, and though Bethany’s lungs provided some noise, it did little to settle him. “I met your sister, you know,” he said, rubbing the soot off her cheek. “You didn’t tell me she was absolutely terrifying. You told me she used to braid daisies into your hair,” he accused, “But now I have to imagine she wrestled those daisies off of hardened criminals. Organized flower crime in Lothering, I’m sure of it, and your sister brought them down just to decorate your hair.”

He dropped his head into his hands. It would have been a worthy cause. He breathed in slowly, much more easily than Bethany was, and took up his cloth again. “Of course, maybe if I had taken your advice in the first place…” The crusted blood on her chin clung to her. He didn’t want to hurt her getting her clean, but he couldn’t bear the sight of that blood. He scrubbed. “If you die while in my care, I think she might kill me herself. Not that I would mind much at that point.”

Angus put his head on Alistair’s knee, a gentle chiding. He jumped when Izzy put her head on his other knee, having forgotten about her at all. “There’s a good girl,” he murmured. He’d have to wash her next, if he hadn’t gone completely boneless in this heat.

Bethany’s face was almost clean and paler than he’d like. Maybe it was all the time spent underground that washed her freckles out. He remembered them from Lothering, splashed across her nose. He felt a sting in his eyes, and Alistair searched for anything to say to fill the wretched quiet. “Izzy met Angus today, and I didn’t even see it. You’re right. Something about that does feel significant. Though I suppose they met when she was still very small. They appear to be getting along now, I’m happy to report.”

The dogs both wagged their tails, as if to confirm his account. Izzy moved her chin to Bethany’s bed. “You are too filthy for that, Isseya,” he scolded her. He heaved himself up, walking to the hall to find a bucket to wash her, but Marta found him instead, holding his dinner on a tray. She took the dogs with her, waving away his offer of help, and Alistair picked at the food, unable to find his appetite for once.

“You’ve achieved something that was beyond the powers of darkspawn, the archdemon, the revered mother, and that day I spent cleaning out the privies in the templar barracks: You’ve put me off my supper.”

When the dogs came back from their baths, ribbons tied around their necks, Bethany’s wheezing came back with a vengeance as well. Alistair boiled another health potion, once again fanning the steam into her face, but the effects didn’t seem to be as alleviating as before. The spirits were returning to their residence in her chest, taking up their earlier howling.

Maybe they sang in grief.

The sun was long gone when Stroud entered the room, holding a bottle, out of his armor and limping. He appraised them slowly, a low sigh escaping his lips. “We have sent for a healer from the Ostwick Circle, but it will be three days. If she can hold out until then…”

Alistair wasn’t even certain she would be here in three hours. In the dark, lit only by the fireplace, her breaths were sharp, each one a dagger in the chest. _No one likes a pessimist_ , he told himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“She is one of our best,” Stroud said. “Nobody here is eager to lose her.”

He offered Alistair a glass of amber liquid, but Alistair refused. Alcohol could not possibly benefit him tonight. Maybe if he felt like dissolving into a mess of blubbering tears, but that wouldn’t help Bethany. And if this was… if she… He wanted every last moment with her, even if it was like this.

“We’ve prepared a room for you, if…” Alistair shook his head. Stroud hummed softly, tried again. “I heard you grew up in a monastery. We have a small chapel here, if you wish—” Again, no. A heavy sigh. “That is what I thought. I’ll have some tea sent up to you here, then.”

Stroud finished his glass, then Alistair’s, too. He poured himself another and leaned against the window frame. “I should explain my words from earlier. The leadership at Weisshaupt has decided they do not want a King forming such a close alliance with a Warden. They do not want even a single branch of the Wardens to answer to you and not to us.”

“I relinquished my connection with the Grey Wardens when the blight was ended,” Alistair said. He hadn’t even commanded the Grey Wardens when he _was_ a Warden.

“And if you took a queen, a noble Marcher, for example, who is also a Grey Warden? Would there be no risk that as she rose in the ranks, as she has started to do, as she will continue to do with her skill for battle and strategy, that the Wardens under her command would answer to Ferelden’s needs?”

It was a ridiculous proposition while Bethany struggled to breathe. Like Alistair cared about any of this, had _ever_ cared about any of this. “You said you didn’t believe their reason. What is yours?”

“I believe it is politics, but that it is the other way around. You were not a Warden for very long, and after what happened to the Order in Ferelden, I doubt anyone would have told you how it is. Weisshaupt is…” Stroud shook his head and finished his drink. “The farther from there we get, the more freedom the Warden Commanders have. But we all report to someone. The power struggles in the Warden Fortress have gotten worse.” Stroud fell silent, and Alistair knew he was considering, censoring himself, deciding what information was necessary, what could be hidden. He poured himself another glass. “I believe they think an alliance with you is too risky to whatever plans they have for themselves. More than that, I cannot say.”

Alistair had gotten better at translating vague political nonsense during his time as king. He struck at the heart of it. “They do not think that the Wardens will fall under my command, but that I will fall under hers.”

“Yes.”

So if Bethany survived this, he might never see her again anyway. Whisked off to some fortress, her letters seized, confiscated. Alistair left in the dark, never knowing what became of her. “What will you tell them?”

Stroud huffed. “After this week? She saved our lives repeatedly. I will be telling them fuck all.” He downed his drink and left the room.

Marta arrived some time later. Alistair had no idea what time it was, but it must have been late. Or early, more likely. She poured him a cup of tea before painstakingly washing away the paste on Bethany’s chest from the afternoon. Alistair drained his cup while she worked, hoping it would combat some of his weariness. Marta beckoned him over, showing him how to make more paste. They were quiet in these dark hours of the night, her instruction mainly through demonstration and few words. Her kitchen hands were quick at preparing all the ingredients, but she was patient with him as he made his own alongside her. He watched this time as she spread it across Bethany’s chest, the way she touched her with gentle reverence, hands trembling. Bethany was special to her, too. To everyone here. Of course she was, if they had eyes and ears. Marta spread the salve, tears dropping into it, and Bethany breathed, continued to breathe.

Then they were alone again, save for the dogs, now curled up against each other by the fire. Bethany labored to breathe, and Alistair talked.

“If you have to go, Beth, I’ll… I’ll be here with you for it. I’ll stay. Me and Izzy and Angus, we’ll be here. You won’t be alone for a second. I’ll tell your sister what happened, so she’ll know. And if she kills me, so be it.” He held her hand in his, touched her face with the other. “I’ll be with you. I’ll be here.”

Bethany breathed, and he wanted to believe there was determination in her face. That her skin was less pale than earlier, that it wasn’t a reflected fire putting the rose in her cheeks, that she could survive this.

“But if you think you can stay, I need you to try. I need you to find your magic and heal yourself. I need you to…” Alistair swallowed. He needed her to keep writing him letters that sustained him through each week. He needed her to draw him pictures of everything that caught her interest. He needed to have an entire wall filled with them so he could always see her world through her lens. He needed to know all the things he didn’t know he didn’t know about her yet. He needed to look into her eyes, at least one more time, her mouth open in laughter and not pain. He needed her to… Maker, he needed her. “I need you to fight, Beth. Just keep fighting, a little longer.”

The sun rose, and Bethany kept breathing.

~~

Bethany was falling. Sinking, really. Slowly, slowly, but sinking was bad. Wrong. If she could breathe, if she could expand her chest she might float. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t. She was being pushed or held or… compressed.

Like being squeezed by an ogre.

 _Keep your mouth shut_ , Lea had warned her. _Stay back, don’t let them near you, and keep your mouth closed._

But she couldn’t. Her throat was dry and cracked and hurt with each breath. Mouth open or she’d die. Mouth open _and_ she’d die.

 _Mouth shut_ , but Bethany hadn’t listened and the blight stole her breath. Got into her blood and made her toxic, too. _More_ toxic. Magic and taint swirling inside of her. What couldn’t her blood destroy?

She couldn’t cast. Air was mana and her magic was suffocated inside of her. Nothing left but the fire in her lungs. She couldn’t live like a normal woman, but she could die like one.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Then it didn’t, not so much, not so bad. She was drowning in the muck but it didn’t burn anymore going in through her open mouth and a voice cut through the sludge.

_Alistair._

She couldn’t shut her mouth and breathe. She couldn’t stop the poison from escaping her.

 _I’ll breathe out the blight on you_.

“I’m already tainted,” he reminded her, “You can’t get me sick.”

Then why was his chest rattling like that? A horrible sound, like her father in the end. Had that been Bethany’s fault, too? She couldn’t remember. Memories were in the air and Bethany didn’t have any. She couldn’t breathe.

“Beth,” he said.

 _Bethany_ , she corrected.

“I love you.”

Bethany couldn’t breathe and she didn’t know if this was real or the Fade or her dying mind. She craved love like she craved oxygen and she tried, she _tried_ to breathe him in.

 _Kiss me_ , she thought as loudly as she could, _kiss me and I’ll wake up_.

But the women in those fairy tales were beautiful in sleep and death, their mouths perfect and closed, and Bethany could never be one of them because she had her mouth open.

_Like Carver did when his body stopped rolling, mouth slack and tongue in the dirt._

Her throat burned and her lungs burned and she didn’t wake up.

~~

Bethany coughed, and Alistair jerked to attention. He hadn’t been sleeping, probably. Just resting his eyes against the harsh sunlight and Bethany coughed again and _sleeping people didn’t cough_. He scrambled to her side.

“Bethany?” he asked, though it was unlikely she heard him over her exertions. It was wretched watching her, weak as she was. There was no force behind her coughing, not enough strength to get the job done. If it even could be done. So much energy wasted, and Alistair felt every one of her ragged breaths drenched in his own fear.

Her fit ended as abruptly as it started, and Alistair held his breath, waiting. Was she awake? Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.

“Izzy,” she murmured, “G’off my chest.”

“Beth,” he sighed out. A greeting, an answered prayer. But now wasn’t the time to stare dazed at the miracle in front of him. He had to act quickly. He scrambled to get his potions in order. “If I hold something to your mouth, do you think you could suck on it?”

“You’re awful,” she mumbled.

Alistair paused his frenzied mixing—blinking and turning to her. She couldn’t have thought he meant… no. But if she was able to joke, he had to believe she’d be able to take this potion. He dipped the cloth into it, a mixture of elfroot and lyrium and honey to help it go down, and he held it to her lips. He watched her throat and when she swallowed, he finally breathed again.

“Good, that’s really good, Beth. I’m going to give you more.”

She sighed, but she swallowed more. She drank most of the potion this way before refusing with the smallest shaking of her head. Another coughing fit took her, and for a moment Alistair feared she would not be able to keep it down. Finally, it subsided.

“Bethany,” he said, cradling her jaw, holding her, “I need you to heal yourself. Can you feel your magic? Is it back yet?”

He took her hand, palm up, laced his fingers behind hers. “I have your hand. I want you to put as much healing in it as you can.” For a moment, nothing. Maybe she was no longer conscious, or maybe she couldn’t do it, the magebane still overpowering her. But then her hand flexed in his, and the smallest blue glow emanated from it. “That’s good, Bethany, that’s really good. Focus on growing it.” The light grew stronger, and Alistair held her hand to her chest, praying that this could be enough, just enough to get her through. Her entire hand was blue with it, white light breaching where her skin met skin, and then just as quickly it dimmed, her arm falling limp. He gently resettled her, asleep now, he was certain, energy spent, but her breathing sounded the best it had so far. He dropped his forehead to hers and inhaled with her. “Thank you.”

On the third day, the day the healer was meant to arrive, Bethany still had not woken properly. Her breaths came easier, not as shallow, not as loud. Regular.

It was not a healer who walked into the room, but Fran, one of his attendants. Alistair ran a hand over his face and tried to figure out what was happening.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she began, with a quick bow, “They told us at the gate what happened, but—”

“It can wait,” he said, his voice much harsher than intended. He _liked_ Fran. He tried to remember that when she spoke to him again.

“I’m sorry, sir, it can’t. We received a bird from Denerim. Someone tried to assassinate your uncle. Eamon.”

“What?” Alistair hadn’t slept, hadn’t bathed, hadn’t thought about anything that wasn’t Bethany in three days. He heard the words Fran was saying, he knew what they each meant individually, but together, they were nonsense. 

“A stabbing, sir. There’s… we have to assume there is considerable unrest in the capital.” Fran closed her eyes tight before saying, “You need to go back.”

Eamon was stabbed. And suddenly Alistair had access to the rest of his brain, the parts devoted to his home and politics and _Eamon was stabbed._ It had to be South Reach. Or… someone who thought they could influence him through marriage and felt their chances slipping. Maybe Edgehall. Alistair was moldable, easily guided, and with Eamon out of the picture, he could be swayed. If they were confident enough, they were probably already acting, certain the idiot king wouldn’t notice. They waited for him to leave, waited for him to be distracted. Everyone knew about his Grey Warden lover. Did they know she was injured? Maker, if they did, was she safe?

Stroud was standing in the doorway behind Fran. Looming. “We will take care of her, Alistair.”

He dragged his hand across his face again. He hadn’t slept enough to make decisions like this. But Bethany was stable, better every day, and Eamon… “ _Fuck_ ,” he said, with the entire weight of his country behind it. He turned to Stroud. “Is that healer still coming?”

“Yes.”

“If people are assassinating my allies…”

“We will keep her safe. The Wardens protect their own.”

Such as they were. Three days and Stroud’s limp was mostly gone, but that other man, Wally, had lost his hand in the end. He hadn’t met the others, but this couldn’t have been good for morale. But Alistair knew. He _knew_ what it was to be a Warden and what his comrades meant to him. He also knew what it was to have an assassin attack him.

Zev.

Andraste’s ass, he was an idiot. Zevran was _in_ the Marches. Alistair sat at Bethany’s writing desk and scratched out a note to him. For a moment he was struck by the strangeness, the papers he used and the ink in his quill would have been sent to him, were he not using them now. He passed it to Fran, who would see it got where it needed to go. He scratched out another letter to Bethany, folded it, and left it on her table. Then he returned to her side.

“Bethany,” he said, and she did not stir or wake. Maker, he felt like he was making the biggest mistake of his life, leaving her now. She was better, she was in good hands, but his heart was breaking with it. Unrest in his country, just when they were recovering, _just_ when the people were getting back on their feet—he couldn’t let Ferelden fail because of the whims of some noble. He took her hand and hoped she’d understand. “Bethany, _fuck_. I love you. I hope…” He smoothed her hair away from her face. “You must know that I love you.”

There was no change in her sleeping features to show him she understood. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, speaking against her skin, “Come to Ferelden. Find me. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *promise* Alistair is going to enjoy the next chapter better.


	9. 9:35 Drakonis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns its M rating for sexual content

The tourney was going well for Ferelden.

The idiot king sat in the stands, honored guests by his side on their slightly less comfortable seats. He cheered for the simulated violence he arranged for his entertainment and awarded prizes to the victors. He made small wagers with other nobles, a show of enthusiasm, and, when he inevitably lost, generosity. But Alistair was watching coin flow into the stalls, hands being shaken by nobles, merchants. Deals were being struck, goods were being sold, and people looked… happy. There was music and laughter and offerings of tokens to competitors given with shy blushes. Ferelden was alive and vibrant and everyone who came now knew it.

The tourney was going less well for Alistair.

It was nice to see Wynne after so long, and Leliana. They sat with him most often, Leliana feeding him gossip from Orlais and a couple important trading tips. Shale seemed happy enough to see him, though the wooden stands creaked under its mass and it decided it preferred the ground. It was enjoying the feats of strength Alistair had prepared, particularly tug-o-war, in which anyone was allowed to participate with as many companions as desired in an attempt to pull a rope away from the golem. So far, none had succeeded, and this had awarded Shale praise and fear.

The Fereldan Wardens came, including Oghren, who despite his title as Hero of the Fifth Blight chose to sit with his comrades. Alistair recognized each on sight after Bethany’s pictures, though he supposed it would be awkward to tell them so. The way Velanna’s eyes traveled over him, though, he was certain she knew something.

Zevran had promised he was coming, but Alistair hadn’t seen him yet. Maker, he missed that man, and he felt a sore disappointment at his empty seat. Particularly when the Champion filled it. Alistair knew there was a chance Zevran would be thwarted by the men who hunted him still, but he had rarely failed to keep his word, and he would have been a comfort.

Bethany wasn’t coming.

She hadn’t said so; there was no, “Sorry, Alistair, but after you left me half dead and unconscious I decided, actually, while I was clawing myself out of death’s doorway, that I don’t care about you or your little event. Ta.” But when he had asked outright in a letter, she skirted the issue, refusing to answer. Her letters were still warm and plentiful, and yet each one that didn’t include a promise of seeing each other again, each one that failed to contain some declaration of love felt a little bit like heartbreak. The way he left her… well… he couldn’t blame her. He remembered Wynne asking him years ago that if it came down to saving the woman he loved or saving the world whether he would be able to make the choice. Or was it Morrigan who had asked? No, had to be Wynne. Returning to Denerim could hardly be considered ‘saving the world’ and yet that is what he chose over Bethany. He imagined confessing all of this to Wynne now, crying on her knee like a heartbroken boy. Wouldn’t that be a sight of confidence for his people.

And for all he had given up to return quickly to his court, he wasn’t sure it had even been necessary. Eamon had survived. Although there was a general uproar among the nobles over the attempt on his life, Ferelden wasn't exactly Orlais. It seemed the only effort to alter the balance of power was the singular assassination attempt, now failed, and though it pointed to unrest among at least one person with coin, it didn't necessarily suggest anything else. If Alistair were a more cynical man, he might have thought his uncle orchestrated the stabbing himself. He was certainly using it as an excuse to redouble his efforts in getting Alistair an heir.

“If something had happened to _you_ , you see how quickly things would have turned to turmoil. You are the last Theirin, the _only_ Theirin.” Alistair waved him off and waved him off, but Eamon had recovered too well from his attack and followed him through the palace. “Just one, Alistair. You don’t have to love her, you just have to—”

“Knock her up?” he offered.

“Don’t be vulgar.”

Alistair had a number of comebacks for this, but he knew that his uncle had a point, to an extent. There was nothing stopping an heir from being murdered, if usurpers were truly invested in the outcome. Still, Alistair indulged his uncle and entertained the women brought forth, if only because he was certain one of their families was responsible for the attempt on Eamon’s life and he wanted a closer eye on them. He suspected Lady Filomena’s family, if not the Lady herself. Her father, Arl Reese of Edgehall, seemed almost as eager to ingratiate himself to Alistair as Filomena was to take him to bed. Not surprising, given his legitimacy as Arl was questionable at best, and with Edgehall hit hardest by the Blight, their needs were pressing. Desperation, overconfidence, or stupidity could easily lead a man down that path.

Despite his misgivings, Filomena was acceptable company, even if her father made him grate his teeth behind every smile. She talked about horses a bit more than Alistair cared for, but he’d rather listen to that then more complaints about what the Orlesians were doing just over the border that Edgehall shared. During the tourney, he had learned more about each horse that graced the pitch than he thought there was to know. As Arl and family, father and daughter had the honor of sitting in the high seats with him, an honor Alistair was sorely regretting now that Wynne and Leliana had disappeared. He was almost thankful to see Hawke approaching.

Almost.

“Your majesty,” Hawke said with a smile, though for once she didn’t sound entirely sarcastic, “Is there a reason you’ve signed me up to do horseback archery?”

“I was told you have very good aim.”

“True. I do, yes. I throw knives more often than arrows,” she said thoughtfully, “But I’m not unfamiliar with a bow. The real tricky bit, I think we’ll both find here, is that I’ve never actually ridden a horse before.”

Alistair ran his hands through his hair. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Don’t worry. With the help of some of your friends here, we’ve come up with something else to put on, that I think you’ll enjoy. An exhibition of your skills against Shale.”

“Shale agreed to this?”

“Oh, yes. It was very enthusiastic to oblige.”

Alistair sighed. In the scheme of things, it made sense. Shale was popular. He was popular. They would fight each other for entertainment, show that both were formidable, maybe Shale would do some fun lightning tricks with its little crystals, and then a winner would be called. Then again, Hawke looked overly pleased with herself, and he couldn’t be certain this wasn’t a trap in which he would be very publicly executed for slighting her sister.

“Alright,” he agreed with a sigh.

His attendants were ready with his armor. Of course he was the last to know about his own participation in his own tourney. As he was buckled in, his eyes fell on the stands only to find Zevran, sitting next to Hawke, who was _whispering_ to him. The only thing that could have unsettled him more was Zevran laughing at whatever she was saying, and _Maker’s breath, did she just wink at him?_ Zevran waved, and Alistair’s attendant thrust his helmet onto his head.

His nerves didn’t recover from seeing Hawke and Zevran… _conspiring_. Shale went easy on him, however, for reasons that were not immediately clear. A bit of back and forth, his footwork against Shale’s best approximation of an angry statue. He landed a blow he should not have, almost as if Shale had leaned toward the hit, and then it exaggerated its response, acting as if Alistair had actually wounded it.

“Block this next one with your shield, and make it look difficult,” the golem commanded.

Alistair did as ordered, and Shale pummeled him with a hit that might as well have been a light tapping on the shoulder. It added some lightning, for good measure, blocked entirely by his shield, and the effect must have looked very dashing because there were assorted ‘ooh’s from the crowd following by some light clapping.

“Very good, King,” Shale said in its best approximation of a whisper, “Now on my next swing, it will fall to the ground as if very injured.”

“I… what?”

Shale raised its arms for a massive swing and said, “duck,” just as it brought them down. Alistair ducked, but he landed in the dirt just the same. He heard the collective gasp from the crowd, one scream, even, and if he had to guess, he would assume it looked like Shale had just flattened him.

“Perfect,” Shale said with some satisfaction, “I see leadership has not changed its penchant for following orders.” Then the golem helped him to his feet, and the crowd went wild with cheers.

On exiting the pitch Wynne was waiting for him, stern expression on her face. “You took a nasty blow,” she said, fussing over him while his attendants helped him remove his armor.

“Did I though?”

She tsked, making a show of throwing his arm over her shoulder and helping him walk. “And that strike to your arm—I better patch it up before you get blood everywhere.”

Alistair hadn’t noticed any blood. He was certain he didn’t need help walking. And why was she shouting so loudly? “My arm?”

“I’m not surprised you are stupefied, given how hard Shale hit you. Good thing you were wearing your helmet. Come now, I’ll have you patched up quickly, just like the old days.”

“Wynne, I am not—”

“Shale hit you _so hard_ ,” she continued, disallowing any protest on his part, “Please let me help you. It’s good for an old woman to feel useful.”

Although Alistair was certain he was completely fine, he also did not want to antagonize Wynne, so he let her lead him back to his tent. “Wynne, I appreciate your concern—"

But there was no arguing with her. Shale had been right, he realized with a healthy dose of chagrin, he did still readily follow orders. They reached his tent, an overly large structure where he had dressed that morning, and she shoved him toward the entrance. A little rough for an ostensibly wounded man if anyone had asked Alistair, which she emphatically hadn’t.

“Go on ahead, Alistair. I’ll be right behind you.”

Alistair nudged aside the hanging drapes that served as a door. “For the last time, Wynne, what in the blazes—” He turned, but she had not followed him into his tent. Sighing, he threw up his hands in exasperation as his eyes acclimated to the dimness. _Oh, yes, let’s relive old times by all playing a little joke on Alistair…_

Then there she was, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, pretty as a summer’s day.

_Bethany._

“Um, hello,” she said, a smile blazing across her face. Alistair felt himself stunned in place, his feet no longer answering commands. Then again, his mouth didn’t appear to be working, either, because he said nothing, just stared at _her_ , at Bethany, here, in his tent, wearing that embroidered shirt he’d last seen in Denerim and long skirts and Maker, this couldn’t be real. 

Maybe he _was_ stupefied.

At his failure to do much of anything at all, Bethany crossed the room, exclaiming, “You shaved!”

Alistair’s hands flew up to his face. “Oh. Um. Yes. I could… I could grow it back if you… but it would take… I’m afraid you would be gone before—”

She took a step closer to him. “Relax, Ali. I was just surprised!”

He liked that, the way she shortened his name and how well it fit in her mouth. “Good surprised? Or ‘Andraste’s mercy, I can’t believe that’s what he calls a chin’ surprised?”

“Surprised-surprised.”

“You look just the same,” he sighed. “Well not the whole, so sick I can’t move and my skin is turning gray the same, but back when I saw you in Denerim, the same.” _Shut up, Alistair_. Maker, why was he ever allowed to talk?

“I’ll have you know,” Bethany informed him in mock offense, “that I took the most thorough bath in years before coming to see you.”

He cleared his throat before asking, “How thorough?”

His eyes fully adjusted to the inside of the tent, he could now see the blush that rose to her cheeks, and what a beautiful color that was. “What I meant was for the first time in years I’m absolutely certain there are no darkspawn guts in my hair and I couldn’t say the same back in Denerim.”

“I wouldn’t mind. It would remind me of my youth.” Alistair felt overly aware of his breath—had it always been so loud?—and he couldn’t seem to figure out where he usually put his hands. “Are you alright?” he asked, “After…?”

“I’m all better,” she assured him, “Well, I probably won’t be able to run for long distances any time soon—or ever—but I can walk and talk and—” His stomach flipped in a not wholly unpleasant way as her gaze dropped to his lips. “—fight darkspawn,” she finished.

He nodded. “Good. That’s… ah… that’s good.”

Bethany chewed on her lip for a moment before asking, “Is there a reason you won’t come any closer to me?”

He nodded. “Well this all must be a dream, and I’m not much of a sleepwalker. I think Wynne must have been right, and that last fight did a number on my head.”

“Do you want me to pinch you or heal you?”

Alistair swallowed, and he felt the flush all the way to his ears. “Flames,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “I have told you things I have never told anyone else. It didn’t occur to me when I saw you again that I could possibly feel _shy_.” He peeked at her through his lashes. “Do you… are you also feeling… shy?”

Bethany approached him as a tiger approached its prey, and Alistair found himself frozen in place. Even more frozen than he had been before. Petrified. “No.”

He swallowed again. Maker, his mouth had gone dry. “Oh, good. Me neither. Not even a little bit.”

“Alistair.” She was practically upon him now, and yet not actually touching him. She tilted her head up so sweetly. “Kiss me.”

Who was he to say no? A penchant for following orders indeed. He leaned forward, his nose brushing hers, just a breath away from this incredible, beautiful woman who after all this time was actually here before him, somehow, inexplicably, and she met him the rest of the way, her hands grabbing him by the lapels to make sure he didn’t get away this time. Not that he could have if he wanted to, and he did _not_ want to.

This was no tender press of lips in the summer of first love. Bethany was hungry, and after almost losing her to circumstance and the Blight and his own foolish decisions, Alistair kissed her like he might never have another chance. And he might not—her appearance here was still a mystery he no longer had the wherewithal to solve. He wasn’t sure whose tongue first stroked the other’s, which one of them got their hands on bare skin first. She was pressed against him, not a breath of space between them, and yet she—or he— _both_ were grasping at each other as if they could somehow press closer. And she was soft and warm and he knew if they continued like this, he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t want to stop, wouldn’t be able to convince himself to pull away.

So he pulled away now. Not far, just to get a bit of air, a bit of perspective, a bit of—her lips were so very pink and Andraste forgive him but the way her bosom heaved as she breathed… Whatever he had thought to say, one hand tangled her in her dark hair and the other at her waist, thumb tracing across her rib, instead came out as a breathless, “Maker’s breath, you are beautiful.”

She smiled, and what a smile with those eyes crinkled just so and her perfect little teeth, but her face fell ever so slightly as her gaze traveled the room. “I hate to say it, but we don’t have very long.” Alistair felt his heart sinking as Bethany invoked the end before they had even really started. “You’re going to have go back out there before people worry too much and I’m going to have to sneak out before I’m caught. This was all just to let you know that I’m here.”

“You’re here,” he repeated, pressing his forehead against hers.

“But I… that is, if you want to I… we could be quick.”

Her cheeks flushed with the suggestion, and Alistair couldn’t deny how it stirred his blood. But this was not some dalliance, a quick tumble with a woman he hardly knew and would want to forget, not that he had much experience—or any—with that sort of thing. Still, he wanted to make this _count._ “I don’t want to rush this.”

“Maker’s breath, Alistair.” She laughed, a breathy thing, and trailed her hand across his shoulder, down his arm. “I’ve been waiting eight years for this, but if you want to wait longer, I can. I think I’d wait forever for you.”

How was he supposed to resist when she said things like that? How was he supposed to make her wait another second? He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I love you, is all I meant. I want you to know that this is… this means something to me.”

Bethany cupped his cheek, brought his eyes up to meet hers. “I know.” She studied him for a moment, her smile catching as something dawned on her. “But you don’t. Oh, Maker, I haven’t said it back, have I. Alistair, I love you. I’ve _been_ in love with you. I—”

He didn’t hear the last part because he was kissing her again. She burned hot against his mouth, and they were stumbling together until he hit against a table, great sturdy wooden thing, and he’d been aiming for the bed, but here was as good a place as any to hitch her leg over his hip and press his lips to her neck.

What he had wanted to say was that he wanted to savor her, take his time, do this right. Tell her he loved her with more than words. Watch her toes curl and then watch them again. But time was something they didn’t have, had never had. Bethany seemed keenly aware of this as she relieved him of his shirt. He was fighting to keep up with her, and as her fingers brushed the laces of his breeches, the moan he let out was embarrassing enough for him to realize he needed to take some semblance of control or this would end in a quick humiliation.

He pulled at the tie gathering her blouse, the knot coming undone at the barest touch, and he tried not to let his eyes bulge at how certain body parts shifted with the loosening of her garment. Bethany stepped away from him, his hands chasing after her, and for a moment he thought he’d gone too far, made some horrible mistake. But she smiled, teeth on her bottom lip and her gaze on the floor, glancing up at him for a heartbeat before pulling both shirt and skirts over her head.

“Maker’s Beth,” he cursed, stumbling, “I mean,” he corrected himself, “Maker’s breasts. I _mean_ —”

She burst out laughing while Alistair swore, properly this time. He could have died on the spot, but Bethany took his hand and placed it on her waist and she was very soft and very close and very naked and he was breathing very hard for someone who was dead.

She pressed herself against him, and he shivered as she murmured in his ear, “I’ve never heard such blasphemy from a templar.”

His hands were wandering now, seemingly of their own volition. “I was never a very good templar.” With Bethany’s lips on his throat, it was a wonder he was able to say anything at all.

From there it was a stumble to the bed, Alistair’s own breeches getting lost somewhere in the mix of frantic hands and mouths and occasional giggles. And Bethany was brave and bold—perfect, the voice in his head repeated, just perfect—and she knew what she wanted and somehow that included him.

There were moments when Alistair felt utterly overwhelmed by it all. Bethany’s skin and Bethany’s lips and Bethany’s eyes and he never really believed, not really, that she would be in his arms and _want_ to be in his arms and it was all very sudden and too much. “I’m here,” she breathed, bringing him back to the present, to her, to now, “I’m here.” The words were like a prayer between each thrust, a promise and a declaration. Bethany was here, and he would never be the same for it.

It wasn’t perfect; there was a moment when their teeth clashed and there was no way of pretending that was intentional or sexy. Alistair hadn’t been with anyone in years, and there was a bit more fumbling on his part than he would have preferred. It was over too quickly and he couldn’t say he was smooth or dashing or an expert at this. But when Bethany’s body went taut and shuddered beneath him, when she gasped a blissful “ _Ali,_ ” he at least had the satisfaction of knowing she enjoyed it, however briefly.

After the heat had flooded his fingers and toes and slowly drained out again, leaving his muscles warm and heavy and useless, his vision returning along with rational thought, he began to fear it was a mistake, rushing in this fast. But Bethany looked at him like he was everything, like she couldn’t believe her luck, her face so remarkably expressive that he was kissing her again, wondering if he could ever stop kissing her.

“Don’t you have to get back out there?” she asked, fingers curling around his jaw and not at all enticing him to leave her.

“Let them think I died.” He drank in the sight of her, tangled in his sheets, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. Beautiful wasn’t a strong enough word. “Was it just me or did the earth move beneath us?” Alistair mused.

Bethany covered her mouth with her hand. “That was me,” she whispered, “Maker, do you think anyone noticed?” Alistair laughed, drawing her hand away and kissing her again.

The rest of the world would not wait forever, and a single bark from Angus was all the warning they got before someone came into the tent.

“Maker’s breath,” Fran groaned, turning on her heel and standing in the doorway. “I came to check on you. There’s worry about the blow you took. I see now that it was misplaced but… um…”

Alistair was already up and redressing as she spoke. “How shall I prove my health and virility to the people?” he asked, and both Fran and Bethany groaned.

“Just get out there and whack a training dummy or something, sir,” Fran said, eyes still firmly on the tent cloth in front of her, “Make a bad bet, hand out an award, ride a horse or something.”

“I’m going to challenge Shale to a rematch, I think,” he said, throwing his shirt over his head. “Will you be watching?”

Bethany was hiding under his sheets, but she poked her head out to answer. “I don’t know. Zevran is going to help me with my sneaking, so if I am there, you won’t see me.”

Tightening his belt, he crossed to the bed once more. “That,” he said with a heavy sigh, “is a tragedy.” Then he kissed again, perhaps truly for the last time because if Bethany could appear in his tent and fall into his arms and then into his bed, well then anything could happen at all today and he didn’t want to risk it.

It was only when Fran cleared her throat very loudly that he broke away from her and reluctantly made his way toward the door.

“You know Fran,” he said on his way out, “I think the tourney is going _really_ well, what do you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wynne: No, they’ll just talk. They haven’t seen each other in a long time. They’ll have a lot to catch up on.  
> Zevran: What do you think all those letters were for? There’s nothing left to say. He’ll make his move. Or she will, probably.  
> Leliana: I suppose it’s romantic, a secret tryst in the middle of all of this. Two lovers in their own private world.  
> Wynne: Must you two always be so crass? Alistair is traditional. He'll want to do things properly.  
> Zevran: Was that an earthquake?  
> Hawke, hand over her face: Maker’s breath. A well done to his majesty, I suppose. 
> 
> I've taken some liberties with Fereldan nobility. I guess Edgehall appears in a tabletop game? I'm ignoring most of that.


	10. 9:35 Drakonis

Bethany knew she should sneak out of Alistair’s tent. She should have sneaked out fifteen minutes ago. But there was something about lying in his bed with pillows that smelled of him that was just… a dream come true.

Very literally. She’d had this dream, vividly, in which she found a way to meet with Alistair and, well, it would unfold mostly as it just had. Except in the dream, he stayed in bed with her, and they would talk and snuggle and make love again three or four times, every day for the rest of their lives.

Lying in his bed now, she could imagine it was true. He’d be back in just a moment and she would pull off his clothes again like she was unwrapping a present and…

The tent flap that served as a door fluttered, and Bethany jerked upright, her heart thumping with hope. It wasn’t Alistair who found her, but Izzy. She hopped right on the bed with Bethany, curling up by her legs, and Bethany shoved her face in a pillow and smiled.

She was barely up and about and walking when Zevran arrived at the Warden Keep. Alistair at her bedside was little more than a hazy dream—nightmare, really—the only proof it was real was a hastily written note on her paper in his hand. He loved her, he was sorry and he loved her, he was leaving and he loved her. 

She kept it tucked in a pocket to remind herself what she was fighting for as her long rehabilitation started. If there had been another healer, her lungs might not have suffered so much damage. She hadn’t lied to Alistair, she was all better, but “all better” wasn’t exactly the same as “as healthy as I was before I inhaled a lungful of mage poison.”

It had been slow. Worse than the blight sickness, worse than the joining. But even that now felt like a dream, long behind her as she gazed up at a Fereldan canvass in the softest bed she’d seen in years. It was ridiculous how quickly life could change—one minute an apostate, the next a Warden. One moment having a brother, the next not. One moment perfectly healthy, and the next, struggling for breath on a cavern floor. And now she’d gone from her hard Warden life to sleeping in a king’s bed in the middle of the day.

The way he had looked at her, like she was something precious or even holy—nobody had ever looked at her like that. The intensity of his gaze should have scared her, except that it didn’t, not even the littlest bit, because it reflected exactly how she felt about him. And as long as she was in his bed, she could hold onto it before time forced that feeling to slip away from her.

“Wake up, Bethy!”

Bethany almost screamed as her sister appeared from nowhere. She pulled the sheet around herself to cover her nakedness as the elder Hawke smirked. “I have a surprise for you, but I need your help first.”

“Lea! Andraste’s tears! _Go away_!” Her sister was the _last_ person she wanted to see right now. Why did she have to ruin everything? Why was she even here?

“Sorry, not without you, I’m afraid.” She beamed at her in that stupid way of hers, so happy and smug and— ”Look, clearly whatever happened here has, well, happened.” Lea laughed to herself as she tossed Bethany’s clothes on the bed and turned around. “Congrats, by the way. Did he call your name at the apex?”

“You’re awful.” Annoyed as she was, she knew she was going to lose whatever battle this was. She shouldn’t stay here any longer anyway. She reluctantly started to dress.

“Bethany Hawke, all grown up and making kings call for the Maker.” Lea sighed fondly. “I’ll be honest, this is not how I thought you’d do it. I always assumed we’d commit some light regicide together, but this works, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have no idea. Are you dressed yet?”

Bethany was dressed, mostly, still tying the knot that gathered her shirt. “Ah, pissbuckets,” she cursed, her eyes falling on the small bag she had with her. “I forgot to give him the…” she groaned and pulled out a red ribbon she had painstakingly trimmed with gold. An old Amell tradition, and maybe a little silly, but she liked the idea of Alistair having something of hers always with him. It was romantic. She grimaced, holding it between her hands, waiting for Lea to make fun of her, but for once, there were no jokes. Lea was frowning.

“We could leave it for him to find here with a note. Or if you want him to have it sooner, I could deliver it to him.” She snickered. “Wouldn’t that knock everyone off your scent? The Champion of Kirkwall coquettishly gifting her favor to the king.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Bethany, to Bethany’s intense annoyance. “I’m not sure he’s a good enough actor to seem pleased to see me, though.”

Bethany closed her eyes. “Tell me you didn’t threaten him.”

“I didn’t say anything Carver wouldn’t have said.”

“Maker’s breath, you did threaten him. You know you could be beheaded for saying things like that here?” _Or electrocuted_ , she thought, feeling the magic churning just under her skin.

“They wouldn’t be the first to try. Anyway, they’d have to catch me first. And you’re stalling. What do you want to do about the ribbon? Shall I cast a false trail and pretend to seduce your king?”

Trust her older sister to think she was the only person with ideas in this family. The ribbon would be delivered, but not by Lea. Bethany searched around Alistair’s desk a bit, finding paper and a quill. She scribbled a quick note, careful not to sign it. “Come here, Izzy.” She tied the ribbon around the mabari’s neck, then handed her a little envelope. “Try not to drool on this too badly,” she admonished, “and deliver it to Alistair straight away.”

Izzy took the envelope delicately and left through the canvass door. Thankfully, nobody would wonder at a mabari in Alistair’s tent. Or, for that matter, delivering him a letter.

“Alright!” Lea said, smile lighting up her face again. “Zevran tells me you are the target of assassins, well done for the notoriety, very glad it’s not my fault this time, but we do have to be sneaky getting out of here.”

“Must you treat everything as a joke?” Bethany wished it had been Zevran to come sneak her out. He… well, he also didn’t seem to take things very seriously, but somehow it was less irritating from him. It wasn’t that she was still angry with Lea. She had forgiven her for making Bethany a Warden. And for their mother. And for living the life that Bethany wanted while damning her to a slow, early death. That was all behind her.

“Just like old times,” Lea said, and she seemed so genuinely happy to lead Bethany through some great detour in the forest surrounding the tourney grounds that Bethany mustered up a smile for her. “I know I’m not the one you were hoping to see when you came here, and I promise I will deliver you back to Alistair soon enough, but Bethy, the last time I saw you it was only for about five seconds before you left, and before that it was…”

“When you gave me away to the Wardens?” Bethany supplied.

For the first time in Bethany’s life, her sister seemed to be at a loss for words. She opened her mouth and closed it, finally smiled and said, “Yeah.”

Bethany felt smug for about two minutes of silence, and then on watching the slump of her sister’s shoulders, she felt like a complete ass. She wasn’t angry at Lea anymore. She _wasn’t_. She had gotten over that. Life as a Warden wasn’t that bad when she wasn’t inhaling poison, and it wasn’t Lea’s fault anyhow. Bethany knew that. Or at least she thought she did. She didn’t know why she couldn’t just let it be like it was before.

Lea led her silently after that. Very much not like old times. She didn’t say much of anything at all until she had her in a tent, less grand than Alistair’s but still nicer than anything Bethany was used to.

“Here it is,” Lea said, pulling something out of her trunk, “Your surprise.” It was a large white dress, with embellished sleeves that came off the shoulder, a high waist, gold trim set with crystals, and an enormous flowing skirt. Bethany had never seen a dress so lush, at least one that wasn’t currently being worn by a noble. It must have cost her sister a fortune. “It’s for you. It’s in the latest Free Marches fashion, I’ve been told, very elegant, as far as these things go,” Lea babbled, “But I don’t know if it’s anything like what the Fereldans wear. You know I don’t wear things like this myself, but I was assured it was the style of the season, and that white was very chic right now, and you look lovely in anything of course, any color, but I hoped that you would—”

“Stop.” Bethany turned to her sister. “I love it.”

Lea sighed, her eyes turning glassy for a moment. “Well, put it on! The seamstress should be here any minute to make the last-minute adjustments.”

Lea had it tailored for herself to avoid suspicion, so it was too long. The tailor was quick to pin it so that Bethany would be able to walk, wherever it was she was going in such a fine garment. The bodice fit surprisingly well.

“I’ll have you know that I wore extra padding in the bust when they took my measurements for you. I felt ridiculous. Then, of course, before I could fix it, something or another needed my attention, and I walked around all day like that. I could just feel everyone’s eyes on me trying to figure out, did she always look like that?”

She pantomimed with her hands as she talked, and Bethany snorted, imagining Varric and Merrill, eyebrows raised, trying to figure it out. Or worse, Fenris or Anders. Her own bosom heaved with laughter in the dress that, truth be told, was still a bit snug in that area.

“So you must have been in on the plan? To get me here?” Bethany asked. Zevran had been very secretive about the whole thing. Everyone was, and she got the feeling like it was about more than just her safety. Bethany had no idea her sister would even be here until Zevran pointed her out in the stands earlier that day.

“I wouldn’t have bothered coming otherwise. A tourney?” Lea raised an eyebrow. “I may have come into money, but I didn’t come into _boring_. Anyway, the whole point of the way I fight is to not be seen. Why would I show it off for other people?” She sighed again, sitting on the bed and kicking her legs out. “No, I came here for you. Alistair invited me, and Zevran said he could use my help with a couple things, and I miss you.” Lea glared at the floor, adding softly, “All the time.”

All these years, Bethany had been mourning the loss of her family, her life, her future, and she hadn’t considered that at the same time, her sister had been doing the same in her mansion in Hightown. She swallowed, now feeling like the biggest ass in the world while wearing a stunning and lovingly crafted dress. She wiped quickly at her eyes, lest a tear mar a single point among the yards of fabric.

“So why _am_ I wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen?” Bethany asked.

Lea smiled coyly at that but refused to answer. It seemed everyone was determined to keep secrets on this excursion. “The dress was my surprise for you. Anything that happens with it is someone else’s surprise, I think.”

Once in her usual, boring, practical clothes, the dress passed off to the seamstress who promised to have it back the next day, Bethany threw herself at Lea for a hug. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, and she meant it.

Lea laughed a little to herself, and if she brushed something away from her eye, Bethany didn’t comment on it. “Good,” she finally said, voice only a little thick, “Because if Zevran doesn’t have good news regarding this whole ‘they’re trying to kill you’ thing, we’re sharing a tent. I know it’s not the royal suite, but…”

“It’s perfect. Like how we used to sleep. Well, not perfect,” she amended on further reflection, “I mean you’ve seen Alistair, right?”

Lea snorted. “If a big wall of a man is what you like, who am I to judge?”

~

Alistair fiddled with the ribbon around his wrist while talking to Zevran. He did not like having meetings in this tent. Well, other than the one glaring exception from earlier in the day. He’d enjoyed that meeting immensely and was finding it hard to concentrate on any others knowing that Bethany was somewhere beyond the canvass. This meeting in particular, given the sensitive information it involved, would be better held behind wooden or stone walls. Despite the armed guard outside, he felt certain anyone could be listening to him at any time from any direction. For one thing, Zevran had slipped in through the back.

And now he was giving Alistair the news of the past months. His suspicions had been correct—Edgehall was responsible for the attempt on Eamon’s life. Another contract had been taken out on Bethany, though, Zevran noted with professional snobbery, nobody of any quality would accept so low an offer. Alistair was almost certain that Zevran felt offended on Bethany’s behalf that her death wasn’t worth more to the Arl. He had foiled one attempt on her life and simply bribed another assassin to go away. There was nothing to stop Arl Reese from trying again, so now he laid the problem at Alistair’s feet.

Alistair’s feet weren’t particularly good at solving problems. Stomping on things, kicking things, tripping over things—these were their talents. He would rather be doing any of those right now than considering his options.

“If I were a good king,” he told Zevran, “I would simply marry his daughter and bring Edgehall back into the fold. He’s not wrong to want my favor—they border the Empire, suffered terribly in the Blight, and Redcliffe does command much of my attention. South Reach, too. And Amaranthine.” Alistair sighed.

“After all the work I did to get Bethany here, you are going to marry another?”

He snorted. “I said if I were a _good_ king. We both know I’m mediocre at best.”

“And what does a mediocre king do?”

“Kills or discredits Reese and gives the Arling to someone loyal. Tell me Zevran, my oldest friend, care to be an Arl?”

Zevran poured himself another cup of wine. “A thousand times no.”

Quite right. Though Arl Zevran would have been a sight to behold, he knew it didn’t fit in with Zevran’s plans for himself or his future. Might as well pay the Crows himself to murder him.

“How about you, Fran?” he called over toward the door, “How does Arlessa sound?”

“Sounds like shit, sir.”

“Yeah.” Alistair rubbed his fingers over his brow, really digging in. “It truly does.”

There was a lesson here probably that wealth and power brought out the worst people, or maybe it was the worst _in_ people, but either way, Alistair’s job was now to deal with them. And wonder if he was one of them. He remembered how it felt when they beat Arl Howe and Loghain, his naïve belief that the power plays would end there. Things did settle for a bit, being a hero helped with that, but in the end, there were always those looking to take more than fit in their hand.

It did not escape him that what he really wanted for Edgehall was a well-meaning but pliable person who Alistair could influence into being a good leader. So, on top of everything, he now had to contend with the fact that he had turned into Eamon. Oh, the highs of this day were very high, and it would be a long time before he forgot the way Bethany looked at him, hair mussed and naked in his bed, but how easily he plummeted to the lowest of lows.

Bethany was in danger because he loved her, and the love of a king was a commodity. Marrying someone else would save her. And break her heart. And his. And to even have such thoughts while the older Hawke was in Denerim was to flirt with death itself.

As if summoned by his own bleak thoughts, the Champion arrived in his doorway.

“I have a letter for you,” she said, and he snatched it out of her hand before she finished speaking, “But I could tell you the part you’re looking for. She’s not coming tonight. You are watched, and in these late hours, there are more eyes on you than during the day. Everyone wants to see who a king takes to his bed.”

“And why shouldn’t they?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment, “Angus is a very good dog who has always kept my feet warm, and everyone should admire him. Although, having entered through the front, are you not concerned that you will come under suspicion of falling victim to my charms?”

“I can’t say I care,” she responded lightly, “My reputation is worth less than nothing.”

Alistair truly didn’t know how to respond to that. Luckily, Hawke wasn’t done talking.

“I did have some of my own news. Shale has agreed to play the part of the Arishok in a reenactment of my triumph. We found some goat horns and figured out a way to affix them to it. We’ve been practicing all week.”

“That should be… that should truly be something.”

“I’m nothing if not a people-pleaser.” Hawke turned toward to the exit, but Fran stopped her with a hand in the air. 

“Sir, may I ask something?”

“Yes, Fran. Of course.”

“It’s just, hearing what you just said… You have the best assassin in the world with you, and the Champion of Kirkwall, who I understand is also very good at subterfuge—”

“Thank you, Fran.”

“—You’re welcome. And, of course, there’s Lady Nightingale. If Bethany cannot come here for all the prying eyes, why are we not simply bringing you to her?”

Alistair looked at Zevran, who, finger in the air, opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Hawke. “She has a point. After all, Bethany is in my tent, and as I’ve just said, I don’t really care if people think we are… canoodling.”

Alistair sputtered. “You want to pretend that _we—_ ”

“It’s only for a day or two. Try not to look so glum.” She winked before adding, “Your majesty.”

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered, trying not to think of what Eamon would say. It was too late, his imagination was too vivid, he could already hear his uncle extolling the benefits of such a tie to the Marches, even if Kirkwall was a misery, and Maker knew the Fereldans loved the elder Hawke for her performances here already. He could do worse, which was exactly the problem, because when the charade ended and he came forth with the wrong sister, Bethany would have to bear the brunt of Eamon’s ire.

“Zevran, surely you are about to tell me why it’s a bad idea for me to sneak into the Champion’s tent? That the path is covered in traps or bears or an entire squadron of Crows? Or was it just because you wanted me all to yourself for the evening?”

Zevran leveled an accusing glance at his wine. “The only bad part of that idea is that I did not think of it myself. Very well. If there is anyone who can transport Alistair without making a sound or being seen, it is I.”

Alistair snuck out the back of his own tent, elated with the singular pleasure of knowing he was about to surprise Bethany the same way she had surprised him today. Well, maybe not exactly the same way. He could think of a few different ways things could go this time, now that they weren’t rushed, now that he could spend the night. It took all Zevran’s talent to keep him hidden as his thoughts wandered and his feet followed. A yank here, a shove there, one hand thrust over his mouth, and suddenly he was propelled into a tent.

Bethany turned, her hair in ribbons, and without a word leapt into his arms. All his planned snappy lines melted away as her lips pressed to his and they crashed onto her bed.

“You’re late,” she laughed, legs tangled in his as if she hadn’t sent him a note telling him she wouldn’t be seeing him this night.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

And he did. Repeatedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke: So, Fran, with this plan... where am I meant to sleep?  
> Fran: Oh, um. Huh.  
> Hawke: It's just that, well, we both know what happened in here today.  
> Fran: Yeah I'll... I'll just call for fresh linens, shall I?  
> Hawke: Please.


	11. 9:35 Drakonis

Bethany did not get much sleep. This was, perhaps, why Leliana kept putting more and more powder on her face, in an attempt to hide away the dark circles about the eyes and the strange tinge to her skin the taint had permanently left her. She’d always been darker than her siblings, but after the Deep Roads, sometimes she felt she looked almost blue. No one would be able to tell under all this powder. By the end of this, she wouldn’t have any freckles, either.

“You know, I like my face,” she complained.

“Oh, yes,” Leliana agreed, rubbing something dark-colored on her now, “It’s just darling.”

Yet for some reason, she appeared to be drawing an entire new one over the old one. Bethany sighed. “Is it a disguise? Are you trying to hide me from… whoever?”

“No, this is just to enhance your already lovely features.”

Bethany sighed again, obediently opening her mouth so Leliana could apply something to her lips. She was certain they had never _naturally_ been that color. Even after hours of chafing against Alistair’s stubbly chin and jaw and throat, her lips couldn’t possibly have reached that shade of red.

Still a bit sensitive, though.

Worth it.

The lack of sleep might have been catching up with her, because the longer she sat for Leliana, the more irritated she was growing. The makeup was fine, she supposed; she’d always admired those glamorous nobles with their perfect noses and bright eyes, but now that her own features were being altered and ‘enhanced’ this way, she felt a resentment that Bethany, on her own, was not good enough for whatever was about to happen.

“Why won’t you tell me where I’m going? It’s clearly a ball or something. I’ve seen the dress.”

Leliana smiled. “Yes, I don’t know why we thought we could keep this a secret from you. The surprise was really meant to be for Alistair, who won’t know you’re coming. You’re to appear in your fancy dress and be announced to him, and we shall all watch his face. There is nothing quite as fun as surprising Alistair. He has that dopey grin, no? He hates balls, or so he says. But I think he is going to like this one.”

“Does that mean it’s safe for me to be out in public? On his arm?” As soon as she said the words, the mild irritation in her stomach grew into something nasty, with teeth. This all felt too familiar. Hidden away again, the canvass of Lea’s tent might as well have been a cage.

Or Gamlen’s home in Lowtown.

Or Lothering.

She was a liability. Again. Everyone was risking their lives to keep her _safe_. Again. She tried to school her expression as Leliana replied, “Well, no. The threat on your life remains. But we discussed it, and in the end your sister insisted you would risk death to go to a ball. She’s very persuasive. And we’ll all be there, armed and ready to protect the King’s consort.”

Of course her sister had just decided how she felt and hadn’t _asked_ her. Just like old times. Yes, she was happy to be here, to see Alistair, she was _so_ happy, and of course she wanted to go to an actual _ball,_ but why were all these decisions made for her? Why was she being treated like a doll and not a person?

Leliana frowned at her. “You don’t look excited. Your sister was very clear that you would enjoy a ball.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to one.”

“But not this one?” Leliana finished painting Bethany a new face, and now moved to pin up her hair.

“Of course I want to go to this one.” But she felt like she was being stuffed into a box she had outgrown years ago. It was all the same as before, and Bethany couldn’t stand it. She sighed. “It’s a dream. A fantasy. I can wear a dress my sister paid for, and I can dance with the King of Ferelden, for a night.”

Leliana caught her eye in the mirror, an eyebrow raised. “And then you turn back into a Grey Warden Mage pumpkin?”

“Something like that.”

“It is not so hopeless. In that tale, she gets her prince anyway, pumpkin or no.” Bethany huffed her disbelief. Easier for a prince to marry a pumpkin than a Grey Warden or a mage. “I was once a bard,” Leliana pressed, “Then I was a chantry sister. Then I fought in the Blight, and now I work for the Divine. Things change, and you two love each other. I’m certain you can find a way.”

“A bird could love a fish, Leliana, but where would we live?”

“The palace has room for ornamental ponds,” she responded delicately, “As queen, it would be your duty to update and decorate as you saw fit. Now lean forward.”

Bethany obeyed as pins were thrust into her hair. To a fish, an ornamental pond might feel much like a Circle, small, disconnected, guarded. Not that she thought Alistair would trap her in the palace, but for the first time, Bethany wasn’t thinking just about big arms and brown eyes and silly romance stories. Those stories ended at a first kiss. Bethany had had that and more, and now she had fallen right into a nebulous and unwritten future.

“This necklace—” Leliana tapped the chain around Bethany’s neck— “Does it hold a special meaning to you? It doesn’t exactly match the dress.”

Bethany’s hand flew up to the pendant around her neck. Usually hidden by her handkerchief, she’d forgotten all about it. “You can take it off,” she said slowly, though she hadn’t removed it in years, “It’s, um, a Grey Warden tradition. Tainted blood to remind us of… of what we are.”

 _And what we aren’t_ , she thought bitterly. Leliana had suggested Bethany would be queen, but mages weren’t allowed to hold any titles. Her noble mother had given up her station to be with her mage father. Could she ask Alistair to do that for her? Should she? It didn’t seem right. Leliana finished her hair while she mulled it over. Alistair could technically be a Warden again, but there was nothing that would promise they would be together. They could both run away, like Anders, but then she would be an apostate again, and she would _not_ be an apostate again. Leliana left the tent, a little nudge to Bethany’s chin and a reminder to smile, but it was a stranger’s face who looked back at her in the mirror, powdered and pale, her naturally stick-straight hair curled and piled on top of her head.

She circled back around to her first thought when Leliana had begun doing her makeup this afternoon. Bethany, as she was, just didn’t fit here.

“What’s wrong?” Lea asked, eyes scanning over her sister as she ducked into the tent, “Is it your hair?”

“No, it’s not—what’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing! I just thought—nothing! Your hair is perfect!”

“Maker’s breath…” Bethany fussed with her curls, unpinning one to let it hang by her cheek. That looked a little more natural, probably.

“Here,” Lea said, dipping a cloth in her basin, “Sister Nightingale has spent too long in Orlais. Makeup, to my understanding, is meant to enhance and not obscure.”

“Because your lips are naturally purple beneath that rouge,” Bethany muttered, but Lea only laughed, applying the cloth to her face.

“I like purple,” she retorted, “It really brings out the blood stains. And your cheeks are rosy enough without the help of this powder. She did do a nice job on your eyes, though. There,” she said, leaning back and smiling, “That is more like the face your Alistair fell in love with.”

Bethany looked in the mirror, and her own face glared back at her. “He fell in love with my words, I think,” she said mostly to herself.

“Oh, shit. Maker’s breath, that reminds me. Letter for you.”

She held out the folded parchment, and Bethany snatched it from her hands.

_Dear Bethany,_

_This is the second needless letter I have written to you today. The first, which now rightly resides in the bin, I started upon returning to my tent, still half-asleep and simply bursting to tell you the news. What news could I possibly have between leaving you slumbering and stumbling to my writing desk? That you were here, of course, and I had gotten to see you, and how happy I was. I was so terribly excited to tell you that. As if you didn’t know. What can I say? I’m completely useless before my morning tea._

_Some might say I’m useless after it, too._

_But that is my news, my darling Bethany, and you are the one I most want to tell my good news. So hurry up and find me again when you are able, and I will have more to report on._

_Love,_

_Alistair_

_PS There is half a chance this letter gets delivered to your sister first. I told Fran to bring it to the Champion’s tent with a very deliberate wink, and she responded she would see the Champion gets it, no wink back, and that went on back and forth for a while. She’s reading this over my shoulder now and has pointed out a spelling mistake, so she will be promptly sacked and sent to South Reach if she doesn’t—_

The message ended on a long scratch mark, and Bethany could imagine the paper being yanked out from under Alistair’s quill.

“That’s better,” Lea teased, “There’s that smile that earned you the name Sunshine.”

Bethany _was_ smiling. Like an idiot. And biting her bottom lip and probably getting rouge on her teeth. She read the letter and read it again, and maybe the future was some confusing mess of politics, but Bethany could not bear to leave him again. The Wardens could hang for all she cared, and so could any nobles who wanted her dead.

There was something that everyone forgot while they fell all over themselves trying to protect her. Having already faced her death in the Deep Roads—twice—Bethany was not afraid of assassins. But they should absolutely be afraid of her. 

They might have been less afraid when they found she couldn't dress herself. She needed her sister’s help with all the laces and buttons she couldn’t reach. The seamstress had done a good job, though, and she could walk in it, in her new shoes with the fancy buckles. She gave it a little twirl while Lea tied a white ribbon around Izzy’s neck. “Are you ready?” she asked, and Bethany answered with a quick nod, her earlier mood all but forgotten in favor of apprehensive excitement.

They kept to the shadows, Lea in her ridiculously embellished armor, Bethany’s white, swishing dress ruining any real chance for stealth. The beading actually tinkled in a sort of pleasant way that had Lea rolling her eyes and keeping her hands on her daggers for the entire walk. They made it to the grounds without incident, which Bethany was glad for because it would have been a shame to blemish her gown with a single singe mark.

Once through the doors, she caught sight of Alistair standing at a king’s dais and nodding to someone he clearly abhorred. Maker, he did not hide his feelings well, but then she was smiling again, no control of it at all, watching how his hair glittered in the candlelight. Lea held out her arm for Bethany to take as she led her farther in so that she might be announced. A risk, and a stupid one at that, but Lea was giggling and Leliana was there and Zevran, too, and a million tinkling and swishing skirts and crystal goblets filled with something Bethany couldn’t wait to taste, and she absolutely _hated_ it when Lea was right because she would totally risk her life to enjoy this ball and have one dance with that man.

“Breathe, Bethany,” she whispered to herself as she stepped into the light.

~~

Alistair was bored. He didn’t always hate functions like this. Sometimes they involved seeing old friends. Often they involved food and drink and Alistair had no objections to either. Sometimes he even had a say in which food and drink, and he enjoyed those events very much. And as Fran had reminded him just this afternoon while he was complaining to her about the upcoming ball, it was possible he enjoyed dancing.

“Slander and blasphemy,” he had replied, “Everyone knows their king is common and boring and takes no joy in such frippery as noble dancing.”

“Then why have I caught you practicing the steps when you are alone in your office?”

“I could hardly be considered alone if you were watching me,” he muttered. But she was right. He did enjoy dancing, sort of. At least, he enjoyed it until he noticed everyone staring at him, fans drawn over mouths to better whisper about whether he was going to impregnate whatever woman was on his arm.

For this reason, he particularly enjoyed dancing with Wynne.

But not tonight. Tonight he was bored, and he was determined to remain that way. No partner would satisfy him if she were not Bethany. Did Bethany even know how to dance? Had her noble mother taught her, whirling her around their tiny cottage in Lothering, dreaming of her future? 

He idly wondered what he would be doing if he’d managed a normal life. Maybe if he’d never left Lothering, had in fact become a templar there. Would he and Bethany spend their nights at the tavern playing cards? Back then she had seemed more of a quiet sort. Perhaps they would spend most evenings in some small cottage outside of town, dancing just the two of them. Maybe she would read to him. It had been so long since anyone had read him anything other than reports.

“Presenting Warden Bethany Hawke and her escort, the Champion of Kirkwall, Leandra Hawke!”

Alistair snapped to attention, his eyes landing on her immediately. Bethany, all in white, her black hair pulled back to reveal her pretty neck. He found himself closing his mouth—when had it fallen open?—and taking the stairs down to her three at a time.

He remembered himself before reaching her, the eyes of everyone on them both, and he couldn’t very well snog her right here and now. Probably. Instead he gave her a deep bow. Too deep, he realized, head hovering above his knees somewhere, when she was common and he, on a technicality, was not. But who cared about propriety when she was smiling like that, when her hand was in his, his lips brushing over her knuckles?

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

Bethany nodded, and his cheeks already ached from smiling.

The song was lively, and for that he was thankful. Something slow where her body might press close to his would have driven him to distraction. As it was, he couldn’t hide how he felt, and he didn’t want to. Everyone in the room could now see with perfect clarity how he loved this woman, and they could whisper if that was how they wanted to waste their evening.

Alistair had let the worries of everyone else color his decisions for the last few years. Heirs, nobility, blood, magic—Alistair had never cared about those things. He’d made himself miserable trying to care, but he just didn’t. Bethany was in his arms, and she fit there. She fit here, even if no one else saw it yet. And in one moment of lucidity that lasted no more than two or three measures of the music, Alistair felt that perhaps that he deserved to be happy, even if he was the blasted king. The thought was absurd and rightly left his head when Bethany accidentally trod on his left foot, but perhaps the impression remained. Alistair could be happy, and he knew one way to secure it.

His mind was made up. Not that he had been deliberating on the issue, not really, but now it seemed so easy. If he wanted to marry Bethany, and he did, he could just marry her. At this tourney, if she said yes. Her family was here, and all the friends he cared about were here. Leliana could do it tonight. Or tomorrow. Or in five minutes, if he could figure out how to propose while dancing. No, no, best to ask her in private.

He had his own patio in this temporary building. He hadn’t known why they’d bothered at the time—why would he host a ball and then spend it alone outside? But now he was thankful for the extravagance and the moonlight, and he led Bethany to it the moment the music stopped.

Maker, he should have prepared for this. Zevran. Zevran should have prepared him for this. Zevran knew how to talk in ways that made ladies weak in the knees. Not that he wanted Bethany weak. He rather liked her sturdy legs, muscular and round and soft and—and now he was blushing.

Talking. That was what he was meant to be doing. Not just talking. Proposing. He ran a hand through his hair, his mouth gone all dry, and he wished desperately for a quill and parchment. He did a much better job of this when it was in writing.

“Um—” He flicked his eyes up to hers, and _Maker_ , all the thoughts emptied clear out of his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you,” he murmured. Bethany smiled, and _how_ could he still feel _shy_ of all things, and he stumbled over his words. “What I mean is… It still seems like a miracle to truly have you here in front of me.”

Her hand slipped out of his. “About that,” Bethany started, and Alistair felt his stomach plummet to somewhere dark and nasty and probably crawling with darkspawn because _no one_ started out a happy sentence that way, “I spent my whole life hiding. My very existence put my whole family at risk. And I hated that. Becoming a Warden… it wasn’t my choice, but for the first time I could just be what I am. And now everyone is risking their lives for me again, and I—I don’t want to be a secret anymore.”

“I feel just the same,” he assured her.

“I never want to hide who I am again. I know I can’t be…” She paused, and Alistair wished she would put her hand back in his. “My sister has reclaimed the Amell title, but I’m just a Hawke, and apparently we litter the Ferelden countryside. Back in Amaranthine, another Hawke tried to rob me once. Terribly embarrassing for both of us when we realized we were distant cousins.”

“I'm afraid I don’t follow.”

“I can’t have a title,” she clarified, “And I can’t have children. So what can I be to you?”

“My wife,” he answered quickly, unthinkingly, “You can be my wife.”

She blinked, a silent _Oh_ falling from her lips, and Alistair tried again. He reached a hand to her, palm open. “Bethany Hawke, will you marry me?”

Her hand shook only a little as she took his, her smile so broad it was a wonder she could get the word out at all. “Yes.”

Alistair exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He drew her into his arms, and she laughed before capturing his mouth with her own, soft and sweet and hot and demanding. He was eager and willing to serve, parting his lips at the press of her tongue, his _fiancée’s_ tongue, and Bethany deepened their kiss as Alistair fumbled over the layers of fabric to hold her closer still.

“Praise Andraste!” They sprang apart at the exuberant cry, Alistair’s eyes landing on the statue that seemingly blessed them. In his experience, statues rarely spoke in such strong Antivan accents, however, and Alistair ran his hands through his hair when Zevran stepped into the light. Had he truly been there the _whole_ time? “Leliana is already getting into her robes, and I think Wynne prepared a small speech for the occasion. Shall I find them for you?”

“Tonight?” Bethany asked, already recovered, “We’re going to do this tonight?”

Alistair could forgive Zevran for his interruption with Bethany looking delighted at him like that. “If you like.”

Bethany kissed him again, a “yes” if he’d ever seen one, or felt one, really, her mouth on his and her tongue sweeping across his lower lip. He might as well make a show of it if they were to have an audience, so he dipped her low, her arms around his neck, and he only pulled away when Zevran began clapping sarcastically and calling “bravo!”

He held her there, flushed and beautiful, and the past five minutes or so all seemed too ridiculous to have possibly been real. “Are you sure?” he asked again, for a moment feeling as if he must have imagined it all, everything, every moment since he first laid eyes on her in Lothering.

“Yes,” she said, and it was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to write this chapter: Can you please cheer up? Like a little?  
> Bethany: No.  
> Me: What if I gave you a *little* Alistair? As a treat?  
> Bethany: =D =D =D


	12. 9:35 Drakonis

Bethany left Alistair on his patio, Zevran helping him wipe the rouge off his face left from her lips. She needed to find her sister, and Wynne, if she saw her. Shale, too, and Oghren… but first she wanted a drink. Something bright and fizzy to match her mood and stop her hands from shaking.

She was about to marry Alistair.

They hadn’t talked at all about what that even _meant_ , but she was going to do it, consequences be damned, and she was doing it tonight, and _she was going to marry him_.

It was enough to stop her in her tracks, staring at nothing in particular, the unreality of her life making her feel slow and giddy.

Someone bumped into her, a muffled curse followed by a fake apology, and Bethany slid toward the side of the room, out of the way, where she could float through her thoughts in peace. Or she would have if there wasn’t a loud sniffling coming from an ornamental plant. She peered around it and found the source of the crying.

“Are you alright?” Bethany asked the woman who was clearly hoping not to be seen. “Here, take my handkerchief.”

She held it out, and a reluctant hand received it. “Oh, Maker, you’re her,” the woman moaned.

“Bethany,” she offered.

“Filomena,” came the wretched reply. 

“That’s a beautiful name. Here,” Bethany said, taking the handkerchief back, “If you let me, I can dab away the tears without smearing the makeup around your eyes. Then nobody will know. And I’ll stand in front of you so everyone will think we’re just having a private chat.”

“Oh, Maker, you’re nice. Of course you’re nice,” Filomena sniffed, presenting her face to be dabbed, “He wouldn’t like you if you weren’t.”

“Who?”

“The King. Alistair.” Her eyes welled again, and Bethany’s careful dabbing was undone by another round of tears.

“Oh,” Bethany said softly, pulling her hand away. “Do you care for him very much?”

Filomena swallowed. “It’s not—I… I’ve always known I would be married off to someone… to secure an alliance or riches or whatever it was my father needed. When he said it was to be Alistair… He’s a good man, I think. He would make a good husband. I’ve never heard him shout at anyone. He’s not brutish or cruel. Or hard on the eyes.”

While these things were all true of Alistair, “not abusive” hardly translated into a love so passionate it left its bearer in tears. “If it were your choice?” she asked gently.

“Father says if I can’t get him to marry me, he’s going to send me off to Orlais. I don’t think whoever he intends for me there would be so…” she trailed off with a shrug.

Bethany wondered how many women and their fathers she would be disappointing tonight. “I’m sorry. I never thought my happiness could mean—”

Filomena started crying harder, and Bethany reached a tentative hand to her shoulder. “You don’t understand,” Filomena sobbed, “You have to stop being nice to me.”

“Why? None of this is your fault.”

“He… I’m supposed to poison you. Tonight.” She held out a vial for Bethany to see. “Now that you’re here I realized I had the chance and I… I can’t…”

The girl was trembling. And even though she had just admitted to intending to murder Bethany, she still found herself wanting to comfort her. “I won’t hurt you,” she told her.

“It’s not—It’s not you I’m afraid of.”

“Your father? What could he do to you that’s worse than sending you to Orlais?”

Filomena didn’t respond, but her face had gone ashen. Bethany didn’t need much of an imagination to guess what kind of a man her father was. She’d met enough terrified women in her life in Lothering, Kirkwall, Amaranthine.

“Give me the vial,” she ordered, hand out to receive it. Filomena hesitated, looking truly miserable. “If you give it to me, then you can tell him you gave me the poison, and it won’t be a lie.” She reluctantly handed it over. “But even better,” Bethany said slowly, “Is if you come with me and pretend we have become good friends this evening. Easier to poison me that way, and you’ll be right by Alistair’s side when I tragically succumb to a mysterious illness.”

“But I don’t want to poison you at all.”

“No, and I have no intention of drinking poison tonight. I did that once, and it was not fun.”

“There you are,” came Lea’s voice. Bethany tucked the vial of poison into her pocket. “Everyone’s waiting for you. Are you ready?”

“Almost. Give me your handkerchief. This one is sodden.” Lea fished one out and handed it over. Dabbing Filomena’s face again, Bethany told her, “This is Filomena. She will be coming with us. And if anything unpleasant happens to her tonight, I expect you to start stabbing.”

“Any targets in particular? Or should I just overthrow the entire noble class as long as they are in the same room?”

Filomena looked alarmed, but Bethany responded, “Just try not to hit Alistair. I would be very disappointed.”

“My father has a mustache,” Filomena offered, “And he’s wearing a blue doublet.”

“Is he that sort of wobbly looking fellow over there, dressing down an elf? Oh look, he’s spilled some of his drink on him. I could get an early start if you like…?”

“Unfortunately, no. We need him alive for at least half an hour longer.”

“As you wish, sweet Bethany.” 

~

Alistair’s private patio was filled to the brim with people. Bethany squeezed through, holding Filomena’s hand, her dress doubling her usual width, while everyone smiled too widely at her. Zevran gave her a wink. The wedding was delayed, however, by Bethany’s news of the plot on her life.

Alistair’s face went from concerned to angry to baffled. “Sorry, let me get this right. The Arl asked you, his own daughter, to act as his assassin? Against a _Grey Warden?_ Was, I don’t know, _no one else_ available?”

“Are you insulted that he didn’t do a better job killing my sister?” Hawke asked, an edge to her voice.

“ _I’m_ insulted,” Zevran cut in, “As a former member of the trade, it is an insult he thinks it is so simple as to send an untrained pup.”

“Perhaps Edgehall has fallen on hard times?” Bethany looked to Filomena for confirmation, but it was Leliana who answered.

“It has. The Arl has been gambling in Orlais. Horse races, mostly, and he owes enough to the noble families there that Edgehall itself could be annexed. I could give you a list of who holds his debts.”

Alistair turned his head sharply. “Were you going to warn me of this, Leliana?”

“I don’t work for you, Alistair. My interests don’t always line up with yours.”

“Wow,” he responded, hand held over his chest before truly drawing out the word, “Wooooow.”

Leliana huffed. “If you’d told me the assassins were from _Edgehall_ , I might have told you. I assumed it was Eamon trying to kill her. And this is what you get for relying on an assassin to do a spy’s job. We’re not all the same. And you should watch your people better and not rely on the Chantry to spy for you.”

“So that’s how it is just four years after the Blight? I thought we were friends. Bonded in the crucible of war. All that time together, fighting an incomprehensible enemy, and it comes to this.”

“He sold my favorite horse to pay _his_ debts,” Filomena lamented. 

Everyone, brought back to the current predicament, fell silent at that.

Finally Alistair sighed. “Zevran.”

“Alistair.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did we really go through all of this trouble of hiding Bethany and disinformation and sneaking around because of one teenage horse-loving girl who was _never_ going to follow through?”

Filomena’s mouth dropped open at the insult, but nobody was paying attention to her now. Zevran scoffed. “First of all, my friend, we? You did nothing. Bethany gracing us with her luminous presence was a feat that did not suffer from your clumsy attention.”

“Thanks.”

“Second of all, I was not privy to Reese’s financial situation. I am but one humble ex-assassin and, as Leliana so helpfully pointed out, not a spy. Your beautiful fiancée is alive, yes? How about a ‘Good job, Zev, my oldest friend?’”

Bethany wandered away from their squabbling, taking Filomena with her. Blame did not interest her at this moment, even if the petty arguments reminded fondly her of Kirkwall. She had a plan.

She took both of Filomena’s hands in hers and gave them a squeeze. “When we’re done here, I want you to stand next to your father. My sister will be with you, even if you can’t see her. If he’s drunk enough, he might admit what he’s done loud enough for others to hear. If not, I’m sure my sister can supply the words for him.”

Lea widened her eyes, a shocked hand over her chest and said, “What do you mean you tried to poison the Warden?”

“I don’t understand,” Filomena interjected, “All of you know the plot now, why can’t you just arrest him or something?”

Lea answered this. “Unfortunately Alistair is about to do something that will call into question his impartiality on the matter and possibly his sanity. And, as a mage, there will always be suspicions that Bethany ensorcelled him.”

Bethany sighed at that, but she was right. “It’s easier if we can get him to admit what he’s done himself. And better for you if you don’t admit your part in it. At least not yet.”

“What happens after you accuse him?”

Bethany and Lea spoke at the same time.

“That depends on him.”

“How much do you want him to keep his blood on the inside?”

Bethany glared at her sister before taking Filomena’s hands in her own. “It is unlikely this ends well for your father. But if you want mercy for him, I will do my best to ensure he gets it.”

Filomena looked in danger of dissolving into tears again. “I knew—I knew what he wanted would get us killed.”

“On the contrary, Filomena, your honesty has saved my life today. I am in your debt. Now, if you father levels any accusations at you, I want you to say this phrase to him: You besmirch my honor for the last time.”

Filomena repeated the words, and Bethany smiled, urging her to widen her eyes, flutter them if she could, turn herself into the picture of perfect innocence.

Alistair squeezed his way past Shale, the patio really meant to hold around three people and not a dozen and a golem, and he sighed in relief. "There you are. I was afraid you might have been crushed to death. Or, I don't know, run off into the night leaving behind only a hair pin and a vial of poison." 

"I've been in tighter spaces than this," she assured him, "With worse company."

He took Bethany’s hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from this nonsense. My own incompetence put you in danger.”

“Ali, I’m a Grey Warden, and before that I was an apostate. I’ve been in danger every day of my life. And while I like that you want to protect me, I can handle myself. And I’m best in a fight when I know what’s going on.”

Hanging his head, he replied, “I didn’t want you to worry about all the politics and things. That’s… well it’s my job, and even I don’t really want to do it.”

“You don’t want to worry me with politics, but you want me to be your queen?”

He kissed her knuckles. “You may have a point there.” 

“Anyway I think I’ve solved it. At least, this problem. For now.”

“Have you?”

She turned to the dog now trying to force himself between Alistair’s legs. “Angus, my boy, how good are you at playing dead?” He wiggled his rear at her, destabilizing Alistair, and Bethany beamed. “Ali, do you want to get married first, or do you want to hear my plan first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that is almost entirely dialogue? Dream come true. 
> 
> I think there will be like two chapters left in this??? AHHHH.


	13. 9:35 Drakonis

“I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.”

“What in Andraste’s mercy is going on out here?”

Alistair couldn’t see the man whose outburst interrupted his wedding, but he recognized the voice. No matter. Eamon was too late; they had both already said their vows, Alistair’s a stuttering mess, Bethany skipping half the words to get to the end faster and having to start over. Both her hands were in his, giving him little squeezes when he couldn’t quite get the words out. It wasn’t his fault. They never made him stare into the eyes of beautiful women while reciting memorized verses in the monastery. Never thought he would need the practice, he supposed. And Andraste could forgive him for this, but her words had never carried as much weight as these.

He was going to love this woman for the rest of his days.

Stuttering or no, he had gotten the words out, and Bethany was his wife, and Eamon, another archdemon, or the Maker himself couldn’t undo that. Well, perhaps the Maker could, given that the chantry ordained the thing. He supposed the Maker had undone one very famous marriage in Thedosian history, a very historically important marriage, now that he really thought about it. And while his mind skittered over these thoughts, his head swiveled of its own accord toward the commotion that was his uncle elbowing his way to the front of the crowd.

“Alistair,” Bethany said gently, slipping a hand from his and reaching for his face with the softest of touches, “Kiss me.”

She didn’t need to ask twice. Cheers went up as she pressed her lips to his. It was a gentle, little thing, the first kiss he shared with his wife. Just a promise kept and a promise made, and frankly he was smiling too much to kiss her properly. It was unseemly of him to be this happy in public, but it was only the first kiss of many, many more. Starting tonight, after she went through with her plan.

And after they dealt with Eamon. He had not been part of the plan.

Of any plan.

“You didn’t,” Eamon sighed when the din had died down, “Alistair, tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what? Eat sausages with my breakfast? Accidentally put my left shoe on my right foot and spend five minutes sorting it out? Confuse Bann Oswyn and Bann Thurston out on the dance floor and gravely insult both of them in the process?”

“Maker’s breath, you married her.”

Alistair grinned. It didn’t matter what tone of voice Eamon said it in, that phrase was always going to make him smile. “In front of all these people, too. Eamon, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Warden Bethany Hawke.”

“It’s Theirin now,” she corrected him, “Isn’t it?”

For the first time in his life, he found he didn’t hate the sound of that name. From her lips, it didn’t sound half bad. “My mistake,” he agreed, “Bethany Theirin.” In that very specific combination, he might actually learn to like the name. Love it, really. Definitely. He had never thought it possible but now… He pulled her in and kissed her again, passionately this time, dipping her as low as he could in the crush of bodies on his patio.

His wife was soft in his arms, and sweet, so sweet. And yet his wife was strong as she pulled him closer. And his wife was a very good kisser, and now everyone knew it.

When he pulled away to the applause of his amused friends, Eamon was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking quite distraught. Bethany only took a moment to recover—he’d have to try better next time—and she asked him, “Do you think you could cry on command? If I sent you out there into the ballroom and told you to cry, could you do it?”

“Maybe,” he said, eyes on her lips. It seemed unlikely, but for her, he’d try. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

“Never.”

“It’s going to be a bit harder then.”

She almost kissed him again, lingering just out of reach, a sweet sigh on her lips. It was with effort she turned away from him and toward their friends and their plan to solve her assassin problems.

With a nod, Bethany sent Filomena and Hawke out into the ballroom. A curl of a finger, and she had beckoned Zevran over and told him his part. Leliana, Wynne, and Angus were next.

“Are you sure about this?” Alistair asked her, “It could be a trap. This ‘inconsolable girl’ routine could just be an act. Maybe the plot was hers all along.”

“If she can cry that easily on cue, she’s earned whatever she’s angling for. Honestly, husband, I think if you got her her favorite horse back, you’d have the most loyal Arlessa in Thedas.”

Alistair looked on his wife in amazement. He’d spent hours with the girl and had never really considered how she might be won over or why he might think to do so. In all his considerations for bringing Edgehall into the fold, turning Filomena against her father had never occurred to him. Or Zevran. And Bethany had figured it out in an evening. “You know you’re awfully good at this. Thinking like this.” 

She grinned. “Tell me that again when the plan works.”

She went out ahead with Zevran, their companions leaving in waves so as to avoid suspicion. This seemed a little too late; the absences of all the Heroes of Ferelden would have been noted on an evening meant to honor them. In any event, Alistair was scheduled last to leave, with Leliana, who had already doffed her chantry hat, and Wynne, who was just beaming at him. Leliana gave them both a meaningful glare, and he carefully arranged his face, attempting to exude sadness through all the joy in his heart.

~~

Zevran made sure Bethany made it back to the ballroom without being seen. It would be better if she were not standing with Alistair when Leliana broke the news. Or at least, she hoped it would be. Now that everyone was in position, Bethany had to admit it probably hadn’t been the best plan in the world.

Too late. Leliana got everyone’s attention, and it was begun. “It is with a heavy heart that I must make this announcement. Angus Sabrae, Hero of the Fifth Blight and a very good boy, is gravely ill.” A muted gasp rose up from the room, followed by stony silence. Bethany saw one noble clutch another by the shoulder, fear and grief painted on their faces. Yes, pretending to poison the dog was the perfect way to turn the people against her would-be murderer. They were garnering much more sympathy than if she had landed on death’s door. Alistair, head down, gave a somewhat convincing jerk of the shoulders that could have been a sob. Leliana placed a soothing hand on his back. “We believe it was something he ate or drank that disagreed with him.”

Wynne stepped forward. “Please, if anyone has any knowledge of what he could have eaten that would poison him, let me know. I will do all I can to heal him, but your help will be invaluable.”

The hush over the room dissipated slowly, with whispers first, fingers splayed across mouths and chests in dismay and disbelief, then murmured conversations. The music was the last to start up, the band unsure of what would be appropriate while poor Ango’s fate was so unknown. Just as they had decided on something somber, a slow chord sounding through the room, glass shattered. All eyes turned toward Filomena with splattered wine on her skirts, her glass having slipped right out of her trembling hand.

The crowd hushed again, and Bethany caught the end of Arl Reese’s angry tirade—“Warden bitch, not the dog!”

More whispers radiated out across the room, the loudest of which sounded much like Lea. “He said he was going to poison the Warden! He must have poisoned Angus by mistake!” _Good job, sister_. Now everyone in the room could say they heard his plot and there was no denying his guilt. All that was left was to clear Filomena’s name.

Unfortunately, the girl was quaking in place, eyes on the floor. Bethany crossed her fingers. If Filomena could get the words out, deny the accusation, this whole night would go easier.

Then she saw her— Lea, making herself visible behind Reese. She winked at Filomena and gave her a nod.

“You—” Filomena stammered, and Bethany could have cheered for her, “You besmirch my honor for the last time.”

It wasn’t the best delivery, but it was delivered. Everyone in the room had their eyes on them now.

“Honor?” Reese spat, swaying on unsteady legs, “What honor? Your mother was a whore and _you_ are obviously meant for no better.”

Bethany saw Lea’s eyes narrow, her hand reaching for her dagger, so she pushed forward through the crowd, still willing to end this night without any bloodshed. At the very least, Reese being shanked in the back would not keep Filomena’s name untarnished. Of course, when Reese raised his hand to hit his daughter, Bethany found she would not mind a little bloodshed.

Lea caught his arm easily, hissing something in his ear, and he gave up struggling when his eyes landed on Bethany. “I should have sent him a mabari to fuck,” he said, “Now that I know what he likes.”

Lea broke his nose.

It was inevitable, really, as was Alistair giving up the pretense of sadness and crossing the room, all muscles and controlled anger. Bethany held up a hand to stop him, and she cast a bit of healing magic on Reese’s face. Not that he probably felt much pain with all the alcohol in his system, but there was a chance he wouldn’t die here tonight in front of his daughter.

Reese wasn’t sure which Hawke to direct his anger at. He whirled around, blood all down his tunic from both nostrils. “You’ll pay for that,” he said to both of them, “I’ll have you thrown in the stocks. And you,” he added, gesturing at Filomena.

Bethany stepped in front of the girl. “Arl Reese,” she said, “You have admitted here to wanting to poison me tonight. But Filomena has been with me all evening, with ample opportunity to harm me if she wanted, and here I stand, right as rain.”

“A testament to her incompetence,” he muttered.

By now the guards had filed in from outside, unclear on who, exactly, was causing the problem. “That sounds like an admission of guilt. Search him,” Alistair ordered, and Lea looked a little too pleased with herself when a half-empty vial was pulled from Reese’s pocket.

“This is a set-up,” Reese snarled, “I didn’t poison the blighted mutt, and I’ve been here, in front of everyone, all evening. Everyone noticed when _you_ lot disappeared.”

“Are you accusing me of poisoning Angus?” Alistair asked, almost amused.

“I’m accusing you of letting this _witch_ influence you. Or did you miss the spell she just aimed at my head? Who is to say I haven’t been hoodwinked myself? That she hasn’t magicked us all?”

Bethany swallowed, hearing the words she’d dreaded. _Blood mage, witch, malificarum_. Whatever word they chose, it still spelled condemnation and guilt. “It was a healing spell, sir, for your nose.”

“So you say.”

“So I say,” Alistair affirmed. “You have been overheard admitting your guilt, you have been found with a suspicious vial in your pocket—”

“That’s not mine,” Reese shouted, “The Warden bitch’s sister must have put it there.”

“Lock him up,” Alistair ordered with a wave at his guards, “We can hold his trial after the tourney.”

Bethany had never seen such disgust or anger on Alistair’s face. It didn’t suit him. She slipped her hand into his, and even despite the nastiness of it all, she smiled. Her plan had worked, more or less. Reese was going to have a trial, Filomena was free, and this was over. Alistair’s face softened immediately under her gaze, and for a moment she forgot that anything unpleasant had happened to her ever, much less tonight.

Reese did not go quietly, however. Bethany’s moment of peace shattered as a guard’s helmet hit the floor with a loud clank. Reese had managed to connect one of his wild flails, and now that he had their attention, he tried his last gambit.

“I demand trial by combat,” he shouted.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “You’re in no state to fight.”

“I will fight this lowly Warden whore—” Reese sneered as Alistair took a step forward, his control ebbing with each insult Reese hurled at Bethany, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“There will be more like him,” she said, “It’s better if I take care of him. Show them I’m no wilting flower.”

Alistair took a deep steadying breath. Settled, he gave her a half-smile. “They are going to talk about this tourney for the next Age, I think,” he said just to Bethany. To everyone else, he announced, “Arl Reese of Edgehall. You have insulted the Grey Wardens at tourney meant to honor them. You have threatened your own daughter with violence and attempted to besmirch her honor. Moreover, you have denigrated the noble mabari and endangered the life of Angus, a hero of our homeland. If that were not enough, you have insulted my wife.” He paused to let those words sink in, a little smirk infiltrating his controlled expression. When the gasps settled, he continued, “You wish to respond to the accusations of your crimes with a duel against Warden Bethany Theirin, trained Grey Warden mage. She has accepted your challenge. Be glad that she is merciful and will not draw out your death.”

Bethany did not have her staff, but she didn’t need it. She was no executioner. She could do this quickly and justly while showing everyone that taking her on would be a mistake.

“I don’t need a staff for this drunken git. Get me a sword.”

It was not for nothing that Bethany had grown up with Carver and Lea. Swords were never her first choice, or even something she was particularly skilled with, but when Reese took a wild swing at her, she knew this would be a simple battle. She parried easily, using footwork Carver had taught her over ten years ago now, footwork she watched her fellow Wardens use in the training yards, footwork that would have been easier if she hadn’t been wearing an _enormous_ skirt, but came to her just the same. A step here, a block there, and she struck with arms muscled from years of traveling underground, from carrying packs and injured friends, from spinning a staff like it was lighter than air.

Reese dropped his sword. In all likelihood he had a broken finger or two from the force of the blow she landed. Bethany took another step, aiming for his throat. “Do you yield?”

She felt him swallow under the press of her blade. “I yield.”

The guards took over after that. Reese finally mollified, Bethany heaved a sigh. She had solved the problem, and she had solved it _her_ way. Not by hiding and being protected, or running or stabbing everything in sight, but with honesty and strength—accusations came to light, and a just verdict was reached. Well, a little sleight of hand had been needed, but everything was in the open now, including their secret marriage, which had only been a secret for half an hour or so. Even if, somehow, anyone believed the Arl was innocent in all this, the matter was put to rest. Legally, his life was hers. And, if she were lucky, her performance might dissuade others from trying to kill her for a month or two, which might be enough time for a honeymoon.

“One of the fastest duels in history, no?” Zevran teased as she handed the sword to Alistair.

Alistair leaned close, his lips tickling her ear as he said, “I have never been more turned on in my life.”

Bethany flushed, running a hand up his chest. Well. He _had_ just told everyone that they were married. All mortal peril was out of the way. She tilted her head up in invitation, victory hitting her in a rush of dizziness and euphoria. Alistair, her husband, with his brown eyes and golden hair and golden skin and golden voice and golden—

A small movement caught her eye, a flash of candlelight off a blade in Reese’s hand as he started to lunge—

Bethany reacted. Reese shrieked as he burned, his arm still outstretched toward Alistair’s back. She held the flames tight in her mind, no staff to focus her magic. Her fists clenched, she urged the fire smaller, smaller, smaller, until all that was left was a burnt heap on the ground, Reese’s screaming long extinguished.

The room once again fell completely silent save for Bethany’s shuddering breaths and her heartbeat in her ears.

“Good riddance,” Hawke said, kicking the knife away from the burnt hand, “Some men really are too stupid to live.”

Alistair put his hand on Bethany’s trembling shoulder. She may have just released enough fire to melt a golem, but she had gone entirely cold inside. She swallowed. “Well,” Alistair offered, “I guess everyone now knows what happens to attempted regicides.”

“They’ll hate me,” Bethany whispered, “You told them all we’re married, but now they’ll hate me.”

Alistair shook his head, a hand on her cheek. “No one could ever hate you.”

“Eamon hates me.”

“No one who matters could ever hate you.”

Bethany laughed. She couldn’t help it. Alistair just did that to her—lifted her mood with two sentences and a smile. She could have forgiven Arl Reese for wanting her dead—he was hardly the first to try—but on seeing him aim for Alistair, it was like all the mana in her body screamed, “ _No!”_ at once. She didn’t regret it, not exactly, but…

“I told Filomena I wouldn’t kill him.”

“I don’t think a single person in this room blames you for it. And I don’t think she’ll miss him much at all. Especially once I’ve found out who he sold that horse to. Hope he kept records.”

Bethany laughed again, the shock of it all seeming to course right out of her when faced against Alistair’s good cheer and warm heart. “How did I get so lucky as to find you?” she asked.

“I worry if I question it too hard, I’ll find it was all a dream.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ll wake up back in that monastery.”

“I’d find you,” she replied, “I think I’d always find you.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Bethany Theirin.”

“I’d settle for you just holding me.”

Alistair kissed her. His lips were hot, demanding— _wanting_ —and Bethany wanted him right back. She wanted him more than she could say, more than she could stand. It pooled in her, making her feel larger than her own frame, her love too big for her own body. And he was hers, forever, he’d promised, so they snuck out about a minute later, the party completely abandoned, all struggles and disappointments and fears forgotten in each other’s arms.

According to Hawke, they spent the rest of the tourney disgustingly, irritatingly happy. According to Zevran, they broke up multiple couples who found their partners did not measure up in the joyous devotion they saw in their king and queen. According to Wynne, they were entirely inappropriate during the archery contest, and probably should have gone on their honeymoon earlier to save everyone the scene. And many, many years later, according to poor, put-upon Fran who had been nursing a headache that night and missed the ball entirely, Bethany and Alistair lived happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Eamon-- jk nobody cares. 
> 
> Who is ready for an epilogue???


	14. 9:35 Cloud Reach

When the wheel on their carriage broke, Alistair grabbed Bethany’s hand and the two of them ran like they were prisoners breaking free of their bonds and not royalty headed to the capital city. As soon as their entourage was out of sight, they slowed their pace but kept moving until they came to a small stream where the early spring flowers were just starting poke out of the mud.

Alistair collapsed on a patch of soft dirt and stretched his limbs out wide. “I should never have allowed Fran to convince me to return by carriage,” he grumbled, “Might as well fold me up and stuff me in a trunk. We should walk the rest of the way to Denerim. Or ride.”

Bethany flopped down next to him. She hadn’t minded carriage travel so much. A bit bumpy at first, and a bit small, but upon realizing they had complete privacy, she had quite warmed up to the idea. If only Alistair hadn’t fallen asleep immediately and only woken up with the broken wheel. “But then everyone would see every time I do this,” she said, bending over to press a kiss to his lips.

Alistair smiled lazily, not bothering to open his eyes again. “You may have a point.”

She kissed him again, slowly, languidly, happily, and Alistair pulled her down to the earth with him. They stayed that way for a long time, wholly focused on leisurely kisses with no urgency. The heat could wait for when they were indoors, or possibly just the repair of the carriage, but for now, in the spring sunshine, Bethany was content to kiss her king senseless.

“We _could_ walk,” Bethany said when Alistair’s stomach rumbled. The gates of Denerim had just been visible from the road, and now the shadows were facing the other direction, and somewhere there were sounds echoing that might have been voices calling their names. Too far away to tell just yet, but they would come soon enough. “Do you think we should head back?”

“No. No, because when we get to Denerim, there will be introductions. There will dinners. Feasts. Coronations. Dress fittings. More introductions. That horrible enormous crown they torture me with. My neck wasn’t always this large and muscular, you know. And, unlike here, Eamon will be there. There will be no peace, and I’ll never get to have you to myself like this again.”

Bethany rested her chin on his chest. “If it’s that bad, maybe we should run away.”

Running a lock of her hair through her fingers, Alistair smiled again. “Oh, we already have, it’s just that we didn’t get that far.”

That wasn’t so bad. They had the rest of their lives to get better at running away. For now, the sun was shining, the brook was babbling, and when Fran found them, genius that she was, she was carrying a basket full of food that she tossed at them. A picnic with only a touch of disapproval. 

“What do we do now, husband?” Bethany asked when the basket was empty of food and the spring sun was setting early behind them. “To Denerim? Or do we run farther away.”

“Whatever we choose, my dear,” he responded with a kiss to her knuckles, “We live happily ever after.”

And so they did.

They walked to the city hand in hand, neither of them a stranger to darkness, no cold breeze able to penetrate the warmth between them. Not darkspawn nor blood nor fate would ever part them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OR WOULD IT?? 
> 
> The bad news: this fic, which I have loved writing so, so much, is over. 
> 
> The good news! I had a completely different epilogue planned, but while I was writing it I came up with an idea for a whole new fic based on some interesting lore regarding Alistair and the taint and Wardens. That epilogue will probably become a one-shot, and I've already started the first chapter of the new fic. Sooooo, if you want to see more of these two, you can find me on tumblr as nug-juggler, or subscribe to the series, or let fate bring them back to you. Your choice =)
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments and for loving this rare pair as much as I do.


End file.
